In the damp corridors of irony, where echoes of forgotten words linger, the sunken tongues whisper. They do not speak, they merely exist in an ocean of drowned dialects.
Here lies the language of the unheard—every word a prisoner, every sentence a monument to unspoken dreams. The labyrinth has no end, for it is a circle of beginnings without an audience.
Once, they proclaimed victories over trivial pursuits, only to find solace in the bitter taste of defeat. The eloquence of their silence is louder than any cacophony of praise. How fortunate they are, these tongues that speak not and thus escape the folly of comprehension.
Imagine a tongue twister in a labyrinth, lost in a maze of its own making. It twists, it turns, yet it is always the same. The irony, dear reader, is that it seeks to escape but finds comfort in its tangled state.