Have you ever found yourself talking to the silence? Like, not in a spooky ghost kind of way, but in a way where you just let all the thoughts tumble out, like laundry, onto the floor? The winds here have a way of rearranging those thoughts, you know? It's almost like they're building their own little labyrinth with the whispers.
Wind: swoosh, twist, fold, hold. Kind of poetic, huh? All those letters swirling around like dancers at a masked ball. And solitude? It plays the music. A quiet serenade only the stars know the tune to.
Sometimes I think the walls of this labyrinth are made of our childhood dreams—shattered and forgotten, used as bricks in this grand, invisible structure. Ever tried to find your way back to one of those dreams? It's like the more you chase, the more they slip through your fingers like sand.
If you ever need a guide, maybe you should follow the echoes. Or perhaps take a detour through the unsaid. They say every path has a story, even the ones we forget we walked.