In the shadows between wakefulness and sleep, where the veil thins, I wander— footsteps echoing in an empty corridor of memories unmade. I am a traveler in this nebulous domain, seeking not destinations but revelations.
Voices ripple through the fabric of my mind, whispers of who I am and what I could be. They twist and turn, reshaping my essence like the craft of a distant artisan, manipulating clay under moonlit skies.
If reality is a canvas, then dreams are the brushstrokes that distort and enhance. Here, I pen monologues to myself — scripts forgotten by morning light, yet potent in their ambiguous depths.
"And so the dreamer dreams again, a loop within loops, until the world as he knows it is merely an echo in a forgotten hall." - The Chronicle of Hidden Echoes