The corridors bend like whispers in forgotten tongues, each turn a portal to echoing dreams, or maybe it's just the wind, bending time like it bends space, fluid, or fractured, depending on how you look at it. Gardens of glass grow in the periphery. You wander and wonder—was that a voice or just another trick of light? Shadows dance in rhythms known only to them, mocking a wisdom you cannot grasp, like holding water in grasping fists.
Do mirrors reflect truth or lies? Are paths real, or just the shadows of the trees? Questions breed like rabbits, each offspring a twist, a turn, a question-stroke in an infinite book never written. And through the pane, a glimpse—a tomorrow that's today, staring back. It's all a game, perhaps, and we are players in a reflection, or maybe the reflection is the player, and we... what do we even play at?
Follow the shadow's murmur, let it guide you through the labyrinth of self. Or perhaps listen instead, for the echoes speak in riddles without end.