In the labyrinth of our own dull repetitiveness, shadows pass, shadows play. They whisper secrets of the unheard. You ask them questions, but they only echo back your own voice, a cacophony of familiar tones.
Listen closely: "To the left, the right, the endless corridor of indistinguishable paths. The left, the right", it says. Ever so slightly, ever so satirically. An ironical refrain that tickles the edges of sanity.
We wander. We meander. "The left, the right. What an exquisite choice, my friend," it laughs. Perhaps it's laughing at us, perhaps with us. Does it even matter? In these shadows, every loop is a story played out twice over.
So what is your choice, oh weary traveler? Another shadow? Another echo? Or perhaps, just perhaps, a light?