Endless echoes in the corridors of time, where memories drip like honey from the comb, each drop a fragment, each fragment a life.
The walls breathe, the ceiling murmurs, a hypnotic rhythm, a wave of sound—persistence—
In this cycle, shadows flicker between the lines, just out of reach, yet they whisper the names of what was, what is, what might have been—
Reality, an echo of whispers, change, drips like scarlet paint upon the canvas of the unknown.
The happiest ghosts dance with shadows, they spin circles until the earth becomes an abyss of light.