Darkness is kind. It wraps around the mind like an embrace of forgotten memories, a womb for thoughts unspoken, a cradle for the lost. I float through the corridors of what was once familiar, but now it's all shadows, whispers, echoes of things I cannot name.

There are voices in the silence, murmurs from the deep, from the void. They speak in riddles, in tongues ancient and unknown. I reach out, but they slip like water, like grains of sand, between fingers that have forgotten how to hold.

I am a soul adrift, cast away from the shores of knowing into the endless sea of not. The stars flicker above, but they are not guides; they are reminders of absence, of what could be if only there was a direction, a purpose, a light.

Echoes of Thought Whispers of the Past From the Depths