Through an unseen door, where shadows are woven and time bends, we walk paths less forgotten. In the quiet echo of our footsteps, a whisper of déjà vu brushes past, as if we traverse trails once danced upon by long-lost selves, gazing through the unbroken lens of memory.
Do we follow the trail upon our fingers, dipping into the intangibility of yesteryears held lightly in the palm? Consider the soft illumination cast not by the sun or stars, but by the pulse of familiar voids— where every silence we remember sings the same note.
The more familiar the strangers, the more clear the shifting silhouettes in misty lanes, seek their reflections not in mirrors but in inner labyrinths untouched by time. Who are the shadows but our kindred in secret rooms? Who else… but us?