Whispers after dusk, shadows stretching their fingers across empty walls, and in the silence, a voice begins to unravel itself.

"In the beginning, there was a thought, but thoughts are just echoes of things not yet spoken, echoes of what could have been, or perhaps what should never have been. The walls tremble with anticipation, waiting for words to fill the emptiness, but there is only a stream—a flowing river of consciousness cascading over the rocks of certainty."

The shapes in the corners begin to take form, flickering hints of meaning that tease the mind. Do they reveal, or do they obscure?

Continue reading in circles until the lines blur and reality folds in on itself like a forgotten origami crane.

"Once upon the edge of a dream," the voice sighs, "there was a garden of paradoxes, blooming in colors unseen by the waking eye. Each flower a question, each petal a fragment of a story untold, untraveled in the maps of memory and time."

The echoes weave a tapestry of forgotten truths and half-remembered lies, as the room pulses with the rhythm of an unseen heart.

Are you listening? The question lingers like mist in the morning sun, fading yet more present than ever.