In corridors of existence, whispers traverse, seeking solace in the void. Each whisper, an echo of past selves adrift in time's relentless river, carved by invisible hands.
In corridors of existence, whispers traverse, seeking solace in the void. Each whisper, an echo of past selves adrift in time's relentless river, carved by invisible hands.
The echo surrounds us, shrouded in the mists of memory. Do the silhouettes of our shadows, cast by light unseen, not bear witness to the paths we untread, the labyrinth of fate weaving ever tighter?
Each dawn, the horizon bleeds colors unseen, where dreams cast their nets over waking thoughts. In this tapestry of becoming, we ponder—are these shadows ours, or do they belong to the echoes that haunt the corridors?
Perhaps, the silhouettes speak in tongues of ancient lore, murmuring secrets of forgotten futures. Listen, for the echoes do not lie; they are the guardians of twilight’s embrace.