Between the twists and turns of the waltzing mirrors in a room forgotten by time, lies the whisper of chaos(/Reflection/Whirl). Shadow dances upon light, bending into forms not recognized by the eyes or the hearts that gaze southward toward certainty.
A hand reaches, only to grasp vapor. The question unfurls: is reality the hand or the mist it seeks? In all directions, every mayhap collides, constructing visages neither broken nor whole. Choices dissolve into the floor, the sky disarrayed into fractals of incomprehensible beauty(/Fractured/Illusions).
Riddles are chanted beneath the breath of winds from unknown coasts. Youth remain eternally at the boundary of understanding, caught between realms of do and undo, of speak and silence. In the end, are we not but playful phantoms, polishing the brass of eternity’s glamour?