Within the corridors, the whispers lay hidden,
tangled in the seams of what is known,
an echo of itself, repeating the same note,
and so, the thought becomes the path,
recursion leading to recursion,
in shadows where light fears to tread.
Is the thought a labyrinth or a string?
Is the string weaving, or itself woven?
Through corridors of whispers—silence speaks.
Time flows differently here, where minutes are thoughts themselves,
stretching moments into eternities.
The soul wanders, the mind's eye surveys.
In this place, to think is to walk,
and to walk is to ponder endlessly.
Direction is irrelevant; destination a deception.
Each step forward a return.