Within every hollow echo lies a phantom memory, woven into existence by the grasping of time upon the threadbare mind. Here, the ugliest truths resonate — truth as fog, its tendrils seeping beneath skin, merging with marrow.
Is it truth if it falls as rain upon a droughted soul? Or truth if it smiles while the world crumbles beneath brilliant façades? Truth or illusion in the maze where every whisper is an altar, every silence a confession.