In the quiet corridors, a murmur of thoughts^1 springs to life, as if the walls themselves echo with memories not their own. Do these whispers belong to the past, present, or an unknowable future? The labyrinth of our minds is a corridor in itself, winding and twisting, never fully revealing its end or beginning.
The air is thick with the scent of untold stories, each corner turned revealing reflections—mirrors that speak in riddles. Who are you when alone in the recesses of the soul? Perhaps we are many, perhaps we are one, each whisper a fragment of a larger whole^2.
Do we seek to understand the echoes, or simply to hear them? The faint sound of footsteps, not ours, tracing the path of forgotten dreams. We walk alone together, strangers in a familiar place, searching for something we cannot name^3.