In the beginning, there was a sound, barely perceptible, like the brushing of wings against the thoughts of the forgotten. Echoes unfurling, unraveling the fabric of presence in the dim corridor, where shadows speak in whispers long past. Footsteps hover momentarily, then fall away, leaving only the resonance, an infinite reverberation.
The clock ticks, but time bends here, in the passages of the mind. Once, it belonged to a traveler, who pooled memories like water in a cave, reflecting faces that were never seen, voices that never spoke, or perhaps they did—
—Nestled between the lines of what was said, what was left unsaid, in rooms alive with the hum of things unseen. Colors? Grey, perhaps. Dimming to black, a palette of whispers.
Desire clings to the walls, a residue of longing, the yearning for places not yet discovered, structured in the contours of sleep. And in the distance, laughter—mirthful, hollow, echoing off invisible surfaces. It's a melody entwined with twilight, hauntingly sweet, and bittersweet. Though the passage grows longer, the end is neither near nor far, simply a concept, ethereal in its formulation.
Are there figures watching, cloaked in shrouds of abstraction? Perhaps. Or perhaps only shadows of ideas, lingering on the periphery of understanding, waiting to be acknowledged, to be woven back into the tapestry of consciousness.