Amidst the tiled corridors of polished yet strangely chilling reflection, one stops to ask: "Who am I, if reflected countless times in distorted sheen?" Outside the frameworks of expectation, inside the echoes of unheard intelligences.
Balance on uneven ground, resisting gravity with a steadying hand in shadows, where your real self flickers beneath translucent pocket mirrors. You see me, I see you, but who's really in charge here?
The path winds ever-on, through hallways skinny like opinion echo chambers. Wasn't it once a matter of choice, this route chosen over its counterparts? A decision forked long before understanding even primed the pump of desire.