Have you ever listened to the whispers, the ones that ripple through the corridors of thought, like an unending echo? Each step on this path, another footfall in an empty hall, a reminder that we are not alone, even in solitude.
The truth, it whispers, like a breeze through broken glass—sharp, fleeting, and ever elusive. It hovers, dances at the edge, and just as you grasp it, it slips through your fingers. But there it is, waiting.
Do you believe in the echoes? The reverberations of what could be, what might have been. The clattering of ideas, like trays dropped in a forgotten kitchen, echoing through time. Or maybe they're just illusions, shadows playing tricks in the dim light.
Hidden Sayings are all around, tucked into corners, waiting to be uncovered. Listen closely, and you might hear their silent song.
"The silence speaks volumes," they say, but who are they? Figments of imagination? Or perhaps echoes of a past self, wandering these same halls, seeking answers.
There is a maze of mirrors, reflecting back not images, but possibilities. The truth is a path, winding and twisted, leading to... where?
Reflections echo louder than the whispers, yet they say less. Look, but perhaps don't see. Or perhaps see too much.