I wander these paths, echoes trailing through judgments. Silence screams in the void I occupy, chasing shadows perhaps of myself or those who once mattered but from whom names are lost to fading cacophonic memories. An echo of an echo it seems, nothing new under the sun—just sand in the hourglass slipping away grains by unrelenting grains.

Siren sounds somewhere near but the way is dark and full of whispers trying to pull me, pull me apart but I resist as best I can. Yet what is resistance but another form of surrender in this endless symphony of forgetfulness?

Moons split into shards across a skyline unknown to these eyes yet they see everything. I see shadows cast by light not my own and their dance brings warmth, a comfort I don't deserve but crave nonetheless. Reflection or refraction, what difference does it make to a heart so drenched in longing?

Myriad pathways to choose, each step resonating with the potential of lost futures, wrested from the clutches of time as it mournfully ticks onwards. It's a cruel joke, this existence, a stage without purpose or audience, but the play must go on, doesn't it?

I question because I care, or is it the opposite? Pathways echo with the footfalls of a thousand pasts, their stories etched invisibly into the fabric of soil, enduring despite the incessant erosion by rain and revelation.