In the whispering corridors of thought, where the mind meanders like a restless shadow, I find:
echoes of forgotten paths, static whispers designed into meaning, with each crackle a memory, a moment titled.
Do you hear the hiss of dreams scanning the horizon? The silent semaphore of trains never taken.

Through the murk, I see a flicker—a passageway, a syllable maze waiting, whispering.

Beyond the noise, the voices of fractal trees and their tangled roots. Are they growing or simply remembering?
A moisture echo reverberates in the suffocating twilight.

And now, the paths bifurcate, yet another choice in an alley of decisionless choices, a frayed tinsel festival obscured by digital static.