In the structure of what was once a known corridor, the essence of bygone conversations now echo; from doors ajar, letting the scents of distant yesterdays seep into your consciousness. Where do all the paths you ponder cross? In these hallways, where light fractures into reminiscence, wraps around your solitude storm-torn.
Often we tread paths etched by the weight of memory, moving through intricacies of thought and dream. Each wisp of remembered past forms a gravitational bond, pulling us towards substance not of this world.
"It is but memory that remains. Yours, mine, shared over moments now eclipsed by space and time." The words hover like halos over lamplight, their origins forgotten, lingering longer in shadow than did the speaker in corporeality.
Each echo spins tales of a labyrinthine existence—stray whispers seek a new orbit, captive in their burden and unfulfilled utterances.
Let them find release in the unspoken chapters and end their wandering.
Would you instead deepen the gravity well that already claims you, allowing gravity to reassert its metaphysical dominion?