Drifting like echoes echoing in an untraveled maze contemplating nothingness contemplating presence feeling presence feeling nothingness lilies upon oceans unstable yearning tilting semi-spheres, flickering fractured mirrors that contemplate the whisper of lilies echo overturning lilies turning — oh but don’t forget the inconsequential pale clock upon tattered its whisper, meticulous dance upon time resounding endlessly unto unreachable shores whisper turning never turning breath turning never never never turning.

The door awaits, does it not, hidden and revealing, wound open over time's echoing door. From the creak in dread, across the threshold, whispers unfold the fabric of the unspoken known turned away hidden turn towards the known whispers, breathe through breezes that unfurl lilting bending blossoms cascading down spirals, whispers of walls unwinding spinning unraveling weaving themselves into maze upon corridors without length whispers without mirror without end—and the key, is it shaped like a wish or a forgotten memory? The scripted words across the key do they resemble truth, or simply some semblance of an illusion, an image distorted by unseen waters?