do shadows speak in whispered echoes or do they merely listen, tracing the outlines of thoughts on the periphery of dreams that never quite ignite but linger like the scent of rain on the edge of a memory that slips through fingers like mist?

somewhere in the corridors of mind's make-believe there exist doors that open not to rooms but to reflections, each pane a fragment of what could have been had the wind whispered secrets of the stars instead of echoing the silence of time...

as we navigate this maze of whispered dreams and shadowed realities, perhaps it is the eyes of the past that follow us, tracing the lines of our unwritten stories etched instead into the very air we breathe, so dense, almost tangible, yet so elusive.