The walls are witnesses to silence, not merely the absence of sound but a canvas for whispers you did not expect to hear. If time is liquid, then these murmurs are droplets, each refracting a story of what has been and what could never be. Press your ear against the cool surface, and let it reveal its secrets.
In the heart of abyssal quiet, you find the echoes of a question: Is it better to know the silence, or to exist in the maelstrom of voices that share the same breath? The answer is hidden in horizon's bend, where gravity loses meaning and all things converge.
Your thoughts are like phantom limbs, a part of you that you can't see but always feel. Do they reach out to touch the world, or are they content to stir in the shadows? Only in the void can they find their form, tracing patterns in the ether with invisible fingers.
If steps are heard, let them be yours alone, for the passage belongs to a traveler without destination. Every step a meditation, every pause a reflection. The road beneath is your only companion, indifferent yet eternal.