In the corridors of unwritten tales, shadowed by the glow of absent suns, the whispers echo.
The clock, frozen in a moment of forgotten choice, remembers the tick of dreams unmade.
Through the eyes of loops and spirals, the truth winks in colors unseen by the waking.
Glistening words on walls of dreams:
"Only the mazed find the hidden doors behind mirrors."
Embrace the influx of paradoxical timelines in the following nexus:
Whispers of the PastBeyond the veil of reality's grasp, the echoes await beneath the sorrow of memories yet to unfold.