Echo Chamber

Shadows of options, folding into themselves, each choice a ghostly echo. The ballot box breathes. Do you feel the pulse? A rhythm of decisions past, choices unseen, yet they murmur... they always murmur.

Fragmented voices speak of visions not yet sculpted, paths diverging into the fog. What is a vote but a promise to the future? And what if that future is a dream unfulfilled?

The wind carries whispers of votes left uncast, a dirge for intentions abandoned. Reach out, the phantom ballot beckons, but your fingers pass through its form like smoke.

Do you hear it? The distant hum of yesteryears' options? They weave a tapestry of what could have been, a labyrinth of dreams entangled in themselves.