,"Our shoes must fit on the shelf of yesterday," murmurs the corridor.
An exit framed by whispers.
.
The ticket office is closed. No need for receipts.
Mist—like stories left unspoken.
.
He walks casually, as if each step dictated by a ledger he forgot to update.
Pantomime performance only the mirror understands.
.
Was the door always here, or did it follow me from room to room?
.
There's truth in the smallest cracks. A labyrinth made of ordinary truths.
.
The ashtray holds secrets more profound than distant stars.
There's a pen, but it’s always missing ink.