In the dim corridors of the mind, echoes of yesterday's dreams linger. A voice murmurs, "What is the color of tomorrow's memories?" The walls pulse with invisible energies, shimmering with the light of thoughts yet to be formed.
An elderly sage appears and asks, "If you could walk backwards through your life, would you do so with eyes open or closed?" The question dangles in the air, heavy with unspoken truths.
Two shadows converse softly in the twilight, their words barely audible: "Time is a river, yet I find myself drifting upstream..." The phrase hangs like mist, intertwining with the labyrinth's secretive pathways.
Perhaps it was in the laughter of a child, or the silence of a star, that I understood time is not linear, but a vast labyrinth unto itself. Follow the echoes or listen to the shadows, each path whispers secrets of existence.
The weight of existence shifts beneath each step. A question lingers on the tip of reality: "Do we shape time, or does time shape us?" The answer is hidden, somewhere deep within the dream-laden corridor.