In the grand theater of the absurd, silence conducts its symphony. The maestro, cloaked in shadows, bows only to the echoes of whispers. Listen closely, and you may hear the doorways sighing in resignation.
Behind every knob lies a novel—the unspoken secrets of abandoned rooms, tales etched in dust and cobwebs, stories of the door’s relentless solitude. Yet, who reads when symphonies are composed in silence?
Once, there was a doorway that led to nowhere and everywhere at once. Travelers came, drawn by its emptiness, only to find their own reflections. The irony? They never left, trapped in a waltz with their own shadows.