The past must stain everything. It seeps into the marrow, whispering to the ghosts of the forgotten. Reflections ripple in dimensions unseen. My reflection, but not my own—fractured mirage, lurking whispers in corridors; silent beacons nestled within shuddering heartbeats.
You wonder sometimes, does the mirror hold the echoes that could mend cracks in time? Who huddles behind those glistening surfaces, waiting and watching the weave of inevitability? Are they witnessing you change, or are they the ones who are undoing your threads?
The clocks are wrong here, but do time and their ticking truly apply? It's their heartbeat, not ours, ensnared in mirages. Roads stretch away from sight, leading into nothing and returning with flickering promises.
Follow the silhouette