Beneath the surface of twisted glass,
where shadows dance and whispers form,
a hidden voice echoes to the lost passerby.
Merchants of memory,
sell fragments of laughter within,
and every chuckle is a kaleidoscope turn.
"The whispers shape you," warns phantasm.
Each step distorts your purpose, leaving stars in your wake,
while reflections flatten into paperclip thoughts.
Echoes of bells played by none,
sit marooned within varnished halls.
Here, even silence hums in shades of fugue.