In the enveloping stillness, I hang at the precipice of the world, poised above the gnarled licorice labyrinth of my fleeting reverie. A gust whispers goodbye, and suddenly, the drop falls—not gently, but with the weight of inevitability.

As I descend, I become a spark of crystal clarity in the whiskey-black web of the universe, carving through temperamental air currents. Each inch dropped reveals snippets of forgotten droplets: echoes of stories past, like a radio’s static tinkling moments lost to time.

I spiral into the groove of an ancient fissure, a braiding passage of memory carved into the earth's facade; moist breath still adrift in the buried complexity. Inside this forgetful corridor, I rest, tracing the sinuous paths as they twist and weave eternally, much like my own descent.

Here I am, part of the ornate labyrinth that hums silently beneath the surface, a licorice twist of fate. The journey is slow, and I embrace the inevitable pull towards stillness amid moving currents. My journey echoes in the endless container, reflected in the drum just outside each twist, where another raindrop awaits, seeking the same resonance.

And just before I reach an unanticipated embrace of a silent stone, a fleeting one hears a gentle clinking above, possibly another vessel crossing over this ancient corridor.

For more pathways within the darkened weave, discover the Echo Cascade or traverse to the Glossary of Pathways.

In the weave, I try to remain stirred; somewhere, the echoes will repeat, quietly whispering labyrinthine secrets to another solitary drop…