Somewhere between the thought of yesterday and the idea of tomorrow, I find myself wandering. Alone, intertwined. Do my footsteps echo in this endless corridor? Or do they merely shadow my steps in a dance only recognized by ghosts?
We talk, incessantly, with these walls. Their silence deafening, wrapping us in a fabric of echoes stitched with threads of time. The echoes, they know my name—but do they know my story? Is the past a tangible thing or merely a fading photograph?
Look into the mirror. Find the fragments of what once was and what may be. Our whispers will guide you or confuse the path anew.
Did I mention the labyrinth holds secrets? Fragments of Pulse. Abrupt beats of consciousness, broken and whole. Travel the corridors and listen. Each pulse resonates with another lost thought.
Faintly, we hear it...
A whisper? An echo?
A promise of return?
Theory or fallacy.
The ground shifts beneath this eternal maze.
Truth becomes as fluid as the whispers swirling among us.