Somewhere in the vast expanse of imagination, a labyrinth twisted upon itself—a serpentine structure not only of stone and sorrow but of ages past, discarded memories fossilized now, layered within softer whispers. Upon stepping inward, one realized this was not merely a structure but a conscious mind that had receded, reflected, and now awaited interpretation.
Scribbles upon stone, engraved by hands long gone yet smiles of ancient men seemed embedded in every curve and cacophony of lines that suddenly sighed to reveal clues—What marks traverse stars when no eyes seek their shine but ours? The voice, a tender ghostly echo, cascaded through the dimly lit passage.
Shadows flickered in rhythm to breaths once drawn here by sibilant human, almost machine-like movements, to forge reality from imagination's visceral bonds. When you, or perhaps we—the narrators or trespassers, depending on perspective—petition intermediates of sustained passage they reciprocate in congenially blinding degrees. Yet nothing missed.
Fore, back, right; forbidden lefts catalyzing fates hidden within folds of probabilistic fabrics—a canvas tensile upon mundane faith, becoming constellations.