Thoughts sink into the dunes as light dances, the wind's breath a gentle mocking echo. Grains of thought, scattered, lost, a ripple in time.
Where do echoes go when there's nothing left to echo? Silently they fade, swallowed by silence, an abyss reverberating the sound of its own vacancy.
Here lies the internal oasis, mirage perceptible only to thirsty souls, craving the reflection they follow but never see.
Your shadow dances, elongated, a partner in solitude, an echo of an echo. Does it too sing, silently, a song of spectres? Perhaps.
Walk the Hidden Path The Mirage Speaks Pathways of Yesterday