The corridors of memory are silent. Inside, the voices of long-lost souls murmur beneath the tapestry of time, woven threads of forsaken dreams and distant hopes.
This is the labyrinth where moments remain suspended. Echoes repeat ad infinitum, each reverberation a whisper of what was or might have been. Listen closely, and you may hear the stories untold, wandering shapes that once touched the fabric of reality, now ghosts within their own musings.
The sun sets over the horizon of yesterday, painting shadows that dance in the half-light of remembrance. We stand at the edge, peering into the depths beneath the surface, wondering how many lifetimes have swept through these halls like leaves in autumn, carrying with them the scent of loss and longing.
In artlessness, truth always hides—beneath the grave nature of time, lies simplicity bereft of pretense. A single thought, reverent and solitary, lingers among the ruins of consciousness.
And now, these fragments, these scattered voices, seek their places in the mosaic of our journey. Grasp them as they pass, or let them slip away—like grains of sand through fingers ever outstretched.
Whispers | Dreams | Melody