In the vast cavern of conscious thought, echoes of the abysmal nature of existence whisper incessantly. Do we not hear them? Do we dare listen?

The void speaks, yet we speak of it. A contradiction, perhaps? Or merely a cycle? It is both old and new, familiar yet foreign.

Consider this: what if the echoes are us?

Reverberations of thought, like a broken record, play on, play on. Are they ever truly broken?