Silent symphonies behind closed doors that never open, a clock with no hands ticking, ticking. What songs the shadows sing, what stories the dust tells, capturing moments in webs not spun, in silence not broken.
You're not lost. You're just breathing in the void, drawing shapes in the mist of forgotten tales, where past, present, future dance a waltz. Look. Listening closely, the echoes belong to that which never was.
Memoirs of Mist — perhaps an illusion, perhaps real, a mere blink in your turning world.
Silhouettes in Shadows — whisper their names, if you dare.
Hollow laughter — a wind chime of broken mirrors, reflecting the selfless hunger of eternity. The walls breathe with you or without you, absorbing your fears into their endless tapestry.
Here's where it all echoes back: nothing set in stone, yet everything finds form, like water penning poems in sand.