In the dim light, shadows stretch across eternal landscapes. Each step echoes a question never posed. The stones, they talk, do they not? Or is it merely the wind's caress, a lover's whisper, a gentle reproach?
Listen. Do you hear the past? The same words, looping endlessly like a cracked record: "What is existence, if not a cycle of yearning and fulfillment, an embrace of echoes in the solitude of silence?"
There lies truth in repetition, a reason in redundancy. Every loop brings the seeker closer, does it not? To both understanding and misunderstanding, to the illusion of wisdom.
Whispers direct our gaze to lost paths and faint echoes; each link a doorway, each doorway slightly ajar, each echo fading yet ever present.