The paths laid before us not in brick and mortar, but in ether and essence. Glitches in the matrix where ideas collide, fragments merging yet refusing unity.
Does the echo of a conversation lost in time find its own purpose if heard in singularity? Or is purpose the remnant of existential debris, a ghost in the machine haunted by creation?
Turn corner. Breeze cold. Alone? * * * Silence.
If that which we cannot observe holds still existence, then does the cursor yield power unbeknownst to the eye, cycling lights in binary corridors?
Revolving doors, questions unending. The projection fades yet persists. Reflection or refraction, a matter of perception, in a corridor gazed upon from the soul's labyrinth.