Whispers inside the wall between reality and dream—that line, that slanted horizon where the sun screams goodbye in hues of riot and denial. Truths sit there, ugly as tar, sticky, relentless. A flickering neon sign insists on pathways with no destination, and all the maps are wrong. Roads absorb footsteps, but don't promise tomorrow.
Do you hear the echoes? Can you trace the footprints backward? They lead to doorways that don't open and mirrors that no longer reflect. Each truth teases with the promise of clarity, then punches with the fist of understanding.
Reflection Pool - Shallow, like my morning routines, where true depths are seldom revealed.
Whispering Silence - That paradox lives here, beneath layers of what isn't said.
Fractured Mirage - Everything is beautiful until you touch it, until the serene facade shatters.
None of this would mean anything if meaning wasn't a cage, rusted but familiar. Truths stand there, adorned in thorns, a crown of barbed wire spinning in the periphery of your vision. Listen—if you dare.
And behind each truth lies another, a grotesque twin in the halls of concealed sincerity. There's a door at the end, isn't there? No, that's a window. Always a way to look out, never a way to look in.