Pure Volume

Harsh whispers flickered along the cavern's mouth, draping shadows over silent hearts awaiting guidance. Beneath the surface, voices twisted in liquid pools, offering fragments of forgotten tales — stories that scratched at the mind's edges yet faded as quickly as they were spoken.

Through a corridor of illusions, mirrors teased the soul. They stretched the visage, twisted the essence, until what remained was not identity, but the essence of all identity dissolved. Every step echoed a question not meant to be answered. Within this funhouse, who was the reflection and who was the seer? The glass spoke not in words but in volumes, each a story of space, time, and moment forgotten.

Darkness wrapped tightly around the solitary candle, offering no comfort, no familiarity. It hummed, vibrating against the barriers of understanding, seeking to touch you in ways you had glossed over at midday's brightness. Lamentations became laughter, and silence danced to the tune of forgotten echoes. Here, the sound was pure: a vibrant tapestry in the grand void.