In a world where empires crumbled under the weight of excess and irony, the palimpsests of erased histories whispered tales too inconvenient for the victors. These corridors, echoes of corridors once brimming with the clamor of forgotten aspirations, now stand as witnesses to a reflection that is anything but. The gilded age of yore, inscribed on scrolls of irony and satire, rewrites itself under the flickering neon light of remembered shadows.
Across these halls, the ghosts of corridors past pause momentarily—a reflection caught in the glass of misunderstood glory. Here, reflection is not the act of pondering, but the cruel mirror of truth that distorts under pressure, revealing not who the beholder is, but what they have erased. History is but the reflection of what could not be forgotten, even in its erasure.
In these reflections, corridors become mirrors. Erased histories speak loudest.