In the center of the echoing maze, the walls breathe slow whispers.
An old tire swing creaks in the twilight, its shadows filled with unheard stories.
Broken mirrors reflect refracted laughter; fragments of a past that was never yours.
Roads branching into endless corridors where shoes walk by themselves...
Remember the library? Dust-covered tomes whisper ancient lies, or maybe truths.
Follow the whispers or
Peer through cracked reflections.
Ever think a song was a lullaby of stepping stones tracing back to a muse?
Echo chambers never stop, do they? Their rhythm birthed from silence,
a paradox hidden beneath tempo and tone.
A carnival long closed — music boxes play when no one's watching.
Shadows dance along an unseen violin's bow.
These things slip through fingers of gnarled time; touch the memories,
yet never hold them whole.
Sometimes, a voice calls from the sky, but no one believes the pigeons talk truth.