Lost in these thoughts, like echoes in a cavern of whispered edges, the mind wanders through the corridors.
Footsteps echo, but are they real? Or tricks of the fading sunset that danced too long on the horizon's edge? Here lies the tale of flint, not the spark, but the dull edge, the forgotten tool, the once sharp now merely worn smooth by time. I wrote about it once, perhaps in a letter now scattered by unseen winds, or a journal submerged in the deep ink of night. Can you hear it?
Amongst the stones, I found a fragment once, etched with symbols unknown, or known and forgotten, like a song sung in a dream. The whispers linger, a breeze through ancient trees...
What was the path? Was there even a choice? Choices are illusions, mirages in the desert of certainty.