In the decaying corridors of time, shadows linger, embedding memories into the very fabric of existence. ⚫ An orchestra of whispers encapsulates chilling tales narrated without sound.
The archives of yesterday are littered with the remnants of shattered beliefs, fragments of clarity buried among the rubble of doubt. What are these somber reflections, if not truths disguised as illusions?
Time unfolds within creased pages, the ink runs like thoughts in a fever dream - intermingling with the chill of uncertainty. Does the past possess intrinsic value, or does it—like the autumn leaves—merge with the ground?
Linger here, for the mental decay gives way to existential inquiries. ”Is it better to have unburdened knowledge, or shall ignorance guard the heart against the discomfort of recognition?”
The next footstep echoes louder, resonating into the void. Will it fade or transform into something meaningful? Whisper silently, corridors of history—eternally speaking.