Listen, the sound of a whisper floating through the ether, begging to be traced, yet it slips like shadows from a lighthouse beam.
Left or right, the choice is a mirage, a dilapidated signpost with forgotten inscriptions, eroded by the sands of time.
Once, there were voices, singing in the underbrush, now just echoes of dreams that never were, or were but never meant to be.
In the distance, a lone figure stands—an omen, a guide, or perhaps a reflection of oneself, obscured in twilight.
The pathways are many, each veiled more than the previous, a labyrinth of thought in the sprawling wilderness of the mind.
Are you seeking? Or merely wandering, your intentions muddled by the fog of what-was and what-could-have-been?
Touch not the stones, worn smooth by countless unseen hands, for they remember everything and reveal nothing.
A single feather drifts down, spiraling, a token of passage or farewell, its journey as obscure as the paths beneath the overhanging trees.