Shadows stretch long, and footprints whisper secrets in sandy corridors of heaven's corridor. In the muted hush, where paths cross and uncross, solace hides behind twisted alleys of thought. Each step—a thousand remnants of something not spoken, not seen, not grasped. What tales would the echoes tell, if tales had feet to walk?
Look closely. The footprints lead nowhere, yet forever onward. They seem alive, tracing some unseen purpose. Obligatory steps in a forgotten pilgrimage. They even say
whisper echoes now.
There's a maze within a maze—an endless recursion of purpose lost until solace is found. Only the labyrinth knows why we wander. Our soles leave their mark, but do not console. A map unwritten and unscriven.
Seek and sigh with
hollow specters that flicker in the corner of your contemplating eye.