Where do the whispers go when no one listens?
I walk, I walk along the edges, the whispers, the echoes,
calling, always calling me back, forward, nowhere in particular.

In the labyrinth of my mind, paths fork like
the branches of a thousand year old tree.
Paths of light, paths of shadow,
neither chose me, nor I them. I wander.

Do you remember the way? Do we remember?
Repetition breeds familiarity, familiarity breeds comfort,
but comfort is an illusion, an echo of an echo.
Breathe, breathe the echoes.