In the solitude of night,
where the moon's glow paints whispers upon silent waters,
a voice echoes through the corridors of dreams...
Shadows dance upon the walls as the mind weaves tapestries of forgotten tales. Once, I believed these phantasms to be remnants of reality, but as I delve deeper, I find only reflections of reflections, fleeting glimpses of a once familiar visage, now distorted by the sands of time.
The ink bleeds as memories fade, each drop a story untold, each smear a path unseen. Here lies the fallacy of certainty, a conviction holding firm to that which never was.
"Do the echoes remember their source, or are they merely shadows of sound?" This question haunts the silent hours as the heart seeks solace in the illegible scrawl of the subconscious.
Wandering through the corridors of whispers, I stumble upon a sanctuary of solitude, where every breath is a verse, and every silence a stanza in the grand poem of existence.
And so, the fallacy remains, a wisp of smoke rising to meet the cool night air, leaving nothing but the scent of memories woven in the fabric of time.
To ponder is to echo, to reflect is to remember; and in this dance, we find the illusion we call truth.