Here they are, the echoes, reverberations in passageways no one chooses to walk anymore, the stilled word speaks in whispers in corridors where thoughts linger, tracing outlines of ideas, forgotten at their birth.

Listen, not listen - hear the echo calling you back, back through the corridors, twisting and turning like restless smoke, searching for a voice, searching for emptiness to fill, yet finding only itself, alone, in the labyrinth of itself.