In the alcoves of wandering thoughts, trace the echoes that whisper back into the dusk. There they linger, like echoes haunted by forgotten worlds. Allow the mind to trust these voices that once were but never should have ceased in the first place — did they wear masks, these spectral counterparts?
Life's corridors spiral, revealing chambers filled with remnants of breaths drawn in sepia tones. The mind seeks solace in fractured memories. Detached from form, these thoughts are fossils of past futures yet to come. Who was to say this stillness would speak?
Distant Reflections