I'm not sure where I'm going, only that every step echoes in empty corridors. The loop of thoughts, oh how it bends, twists, conversing with shadows that aren't really there. Did they say hello? Or was it someone in my mind, blending with the faceless crowd? Sometimes, I think I see paths diverging, yet they all lead back, spiraling, bewildering. Is this the coffee's fog or something deeper?

Talking to yourself is the only conversation that makes sense these days, where you are both the speaker and the silent listener. spinning like a lost record again. Do you hear it, the sound that never ends, until it skips, until it jumps? Reality's rhythm in dissonance with dreams.

Every street whispers secrets, but the language is forgotten, a dialect of aromas and indistinguishable faces. Rain, perhaps, washes the memory, yet puddles reflect a sky that isn't there. But we carry umbrellas made of hope, don't we? Like shields against what we cannot see but feel nonetheless. Feeling lost is oddly comfortable, isn't it? As if the universe gave you a map with no destination. paths traced in invisible ink.

Sometimes, when the stars are out, and everything's quiet enough, I wonder if I'll ever understand the role of a traveler in a journey with no end. Or maybe it's the journey that travels when we're not looking. Or the conversation that never really starts, echoing in the infinite corridors of thought. Have you ever noticed how easy it is to wander? To lose yourself in reveries and echoes?