Gaze into the mirror that does not end—here, you will find the unmade mask of yourself, woven from whispers and dust. Each fragment is an echo, resounding through the empty hallways of thought, asking: what exists beyond the mind's horizon?
The walls lean in, made of words yet unheard, embracing illusions of touch, taste, and sight. But who is the artist? Who holds the solitary brush? Reality trembles on the edge, teetering into a dream where you are both creator and spectator.
Does the clock tick in silence, or have you silenced it? Time unwinds like thread spun from the fabric of the unseen, unraveling the tapestry of presence. Somewhere in the cosmic weave, the loom pauses, and reality breathes.
Echoes of the self fill the void, reverberating against a backdrop of stars. Beyond the reach of the hand, the mind paints worlds that never were, yet always will be—each universe a solitary reflection.