A door not seen, the whispers drawling, "What lies beyond?" The air stirs with echoes of futures, untraveled places calling softly through fabric of time. Do you listen?
Footsteps in questions, not answers, linger in spectral patterns. Each step a question, an inquiry into the fabric that covers this in-between state. What is your name?
The wind wrote tales upon old pages of contentment, shifting details beneath a watchful gaze. Some have seen, some have not. Only steps are heard, phantoms dancing amid silken threads of desirable reality.
At the fork, there is always a fork, lies a choice — golden whispers or shrouded echoes? You decide by not deciding. Turn away or Face forward.
Let the eye travel where words dare not tread. A cavern of meanings interprets itself through the dot of cosmic ink — the Universe’s small note, inscribed with intent. You are the interpreter, and the translation is unwritten.
On paths seldom walked, gravity bends to the will of unseen hands. Corners twist into waves, folding time in a curious embrace. You become the ripple. Listen... there's the key.
In the end, the words are but spectral remnants; composed not to convey but to be. Like melodies without a sound, they flutter and dissolve, cascading into the dimming light of consciousness.