In the depths of the cavernous corridors of thought, a murmur becomes an echo. In solitude, whispers transform, travel, resonate, and ultimately fracture. Ideas born from one context dissolve into another; they traverse landscapes of meaning only to find them hollow and devoid of their original intent.
The murmur, quiet and intimate, represents the genesis of the idea. It is unassuming. Yet the echo... the echo is a consequence, a reflection in a world where sounds are exaggerated untimely. Over time, as the echo fades, so too does clarity. The cycles of notion and recantation leave their imprint on the tapestry of consciousness.
Consider the echoes of abandoned hallways, where each whisper carries the remnants of its predecessor. Here, stories decay like ancient manuscripts, their edges tattered, texts blurring in the fading ink. Knowledge crumbles, and with it, the scaffolding of certainty.