Across the labyrinth of echoes, tales lie dormant, waiting, or perhaps extinct, tales of tales, cycling through the fabric of history in a whispering tempest. In every corner of the soul's vast landscape, a story births another, yet some remnants remain, unwritten in the annals of logic; those written by the hand of a blind, crawling light.
In moments like tinctured glass, where translucent words shimmer and break, the meaning unfurls. What of the shadows that speak in tongues disjointed, yet harmonious in a way that breaks the heart only to mend it with shadows? The questions carry meaning, not in their answers, but in their melodies. Listen to the silence that lies between.
Clouded mirrors reflect places unseen, familiar yet distant. Tales are woven with threads of oblivion, fingers skimming over a surface untouched by time. Is the surface a mirror? A window? Gaze into the mirror, and dare to unravel the truth.
As truths dissolve like evening mist, the echoes redouble. Every tale a droplet, cascading into an ocean devoid of shores—a resonate silence intertwined with a melancholic symphony. And in this symphony, may you find yourself, or lose yourself, both are the same—the end is but a new beginning.