Imagine a room, vast and infinite in its voidness, where every sound is swallowed, yet every breath becomes a thunderclap. In its centre,
phantoms of words hover like scattered dust in glorified sunlight, waiting for a scribe too restless to leave the abyss unchallenged.
Here, silence speaks in riddles wrapped in tendrils of smoke, yet the answers are as elusive as shadows at dusk. The walls—pale canvases—absorb every whisper, imprinting echoes that stretch into
unfathomable corridors of memory, locked within cryptic constellations of thought.
A lone voice dare not break this tenuous tranquility. Instead, it reverberates—deep and solemn—via corridors drenched in velvety absence. Outside perception, it unfolds like an origami nightmare serenading the secrets of forgotten realms.
Illusions dance on the periphery, waiting to be decyphered.
Listen closely, and you may discover only yourself knows the tune, a silent orchestration composed for an audience of one.