The corridors convey whispers anew. Glass shimmers, distorting visages lost to time, echoing the chants of unremembered deities. Who uncorks the bottle of yesterday's dreams? The curator of phantoms, perhaps.
In this laboratory of forgotten whispers, the tale of the inception lies etched not on stone, but in the delicate archways of light bending against the known unknown. Seek not the answer, for it is a labyrinth without an exit.
Here lies a question, or is it an answer? Equilibrium speaks in paradox. A dance without a partner. A flame flickering amidst the void.
Mosaic memories lined with astral dust, a sublime tapestry woven by hands unseen. The potion brews beneath the waves, waiting for the chrysalis to stir. Reflect, refract, react—transform perpetually.
Once upon a time, in a dimension folded upon itself, stories were never told. Instead, they were lived concurrently, chaotically, in synchronous disarray. Herein lies your parallax, a window into the reflection of reality's refracted prism.