Shadows without source, texts blur upon interpretation, like whispered questions to the void. Mirror fragments, dancing ink, reveal oneself not as solid, but as fluid, an echo in the glass.
In the curled whispers of time, any shape has substance only by forgetting. Systems of letters breathe, tracing veins whose megaphones break into song: absurd choruses of past misplaced. Could haste ever spin such depth from in?
An inkling speaks: Echo fades, glint dissects, voice breaches.
Grains sift through paradox, reverberating promises made of diaspora; nothing escapes things yet not thought but awash beneath a cardinal sun. The mirror suspends, yet offers a void for all dissolved potential.