Whispers steeped in shadow, echo from the lengthening corridor — an intangible intuition that prods the soul. In the corridor, dreams become tangible, distorting reality into plush figures ensconced in velvet screams.
Hear the clock tear apart moments untold, unraveling threads of existence with hands as transient as mist. Beyond, the end beckons but the truth lies with the song sung beneath its omniscient gaze. Do not seek it — let it find you instead.
Muffled voices trace fog across the surface of understanding, brewing storms in the teacups of intellect. Listen closely; every syllable aids the descent into clotted memories, where even the air twitches in morse, an ancient language locked in lichen and rust.
Eternity trembles here, stretched across webs spun by unseen hands. Discomfort becomes art as the corridor unfurls its canvas of fleeting echoes. Every step transforms into a question, every crease a reminder: in the light’s aftermath, certainty fades.
And so, you wander, with dreams clandestine and truths unwittingly revealed. The corridor inhales slowly, awaits your answer, even as time dissolves like crystal in wine — an end or merely a passage, through which something else must begin again.
Venture further, should you dare: Reflection | Cogitation