in the folds of twilight, where echoes dissolve, whispers emerge from the abyss like fog on a forgotten moor. the pathway opens, closes, opens again, echoing with syllables of wandering spirits.
Round and round the spiral path, tiles underfoot, each a futile reflection of what could have been.

Sometimes a word unlocks a door, sometimes it just burns, leave murmuring ashes.
Do not follow the sun, blinds become friends as daylight ends.
converse with shadows, they know more than they let on.

an angular gaze upon written dreams, the stutter of a distant clock constricts time. step, stumble, spiral, repeat. are you even going somewhere?
Listen. did you hear that? paths diverged, whispers forked, another crossing awaits.

enter the realm of nocturnal musings: fragile break where fathoms gather, sifting sands.
flickering sigils haunt pathways, stories asleep, waiting for the light.
The only constant is your reflection, ever-changing, welcoming the end of names.