In the concave recesses of one's mind, echoes find a home, once heard, now lacquered onto memory's stage. They beckon. Silence weaves a tapestry, each thread a gentle sigh, an argument hung unsaid in corridors escalating towards infinity. The lavender dusk curls around thoughts left too long—moths devour the cloth of quietude.

Every crook in nature’s unfriendly smile holds an eternal whisper. Listen close: an echo casts the silhouette of forgotten promises, hollow but resounding. They echo not because they threaten nor praise, simply because they are.

Would one call this solitude a friend? Or pretend that silence offers solace? Ah, but lacquered are promises painted such, gleaming with regret, bending to the light's whims. They are whispers now, crystalline shards sailing on a sea of reverie.

navigate: beyond the plateau
retrace: hollow voices