In the depths of silent echoes, there lies a reality that loops back upon itself. This voice speaks, yet none listens. There are untold stories written in the shadows, tales submerged beneath the tide of words never spoken.
Sometimes, I ask the mirror questions it cannot answer. The surface reflects only what I wish to see, a world both comforting and terrifically distorted. Maybe my eyes deceive me, or perhaps the truth is encoded in dreams—encoded, yes, like a whispering password locked away in the recesses of a mind unmade.
As time sentences us to a dance of looping stories, I find solace in these paths that offer no destination, only reflections of those who once walked. The roads are etched with invisible ink, marking trails across the tangled fields of memory.
Rest here, beneath the tangled branches of once-living truths, and let the winds whisper what the heart dares not say aloud.