The clock ticks away in a room where the shadows play, casting stories on the walls that speak in whispers. Do you remember the wind? The cold touch of reality as it brushes past, leaving a trail of memories untamed. There are voices here, echoes of dreams once lived, now scattered like leaves on a forgotten path.
In the cobwebbed corners of existence, a forgotten manuscript lies. It reads: "In the beginning, there was silence," and I wonder, was that silence ever broken? Or is it the starting point of everything, the pause before the breath of life inhales deeply? Conceptual artifacts, they call them. Traces of thought etched in time's endless canvas.
A child laughs somewhere, a sound so pure it cuts through the haze. I chase it, only to find myself lost in a maze of memory and time. What was once a straight path bends, curves, and warps into a dance of shadows and light. Each step, a verse in the poem of my solitude.
Do you hear the rain against the window? Each drop a story, a heartbeat of the universe. It whispers secrets only the trees know, weaving a tapestry of sound that blurs the line between dream and reality. I close my eyes, and it all fades away, leaving behind the echo of a forgotten song.
"You must find the door," it says. A door to what? To where the sun sets and the stars begin their vigil. To the place where all paths converge and diverge, making sense in their madness. I wander, seeking, searching, always dreaming.
Follow the Echoes