Words like shadows, words like whispers, drifting through a fog that has no source. An echo of thought—no, a mirage of reason—in the vast desert of comprehension. Silhouettes dance, not on the ground, but in the air, cast by—what? Invisible lanterns. Lanterns that consume the light around them, revealing not light, but shadows.

An owl hoots in the mist, but the sound is like a memory of a sound, not the sound itself, trapped in a loop of time that defies clocks. Understanding is a maze, with walls made not of stone but of illusion. Every turn reveals a fork, every fork a choice, every choice an echo.

Do you see it? The answer you seek, hidden in plain sight. Or is it a riddle whose answer lies in its own question? A question whispered by the breeze of the unknown.