The gallery whispers. Between the tectonic spaces, a soul wanders. Shadows cast illusions, reflections in the abyss pause — contemplation. Here, within the cosmic corridor, rise the forgotten echoes of creation.
Eyes not seen, yet they observe. A clock ticks — not time, but essence. Inhale, exhale, the cycle of perceiving; a dance with invisible spectres. The gallery breathes; does it live, or does it devour the living?
Consume the Mirrors
Vanish into the Expanse
Breathe the Cycles