In the fleeting hours, words scatter like autumn leaves. The paths diverge, each step a syllable whispered into the void.
Lines sketch stories untold, silhouettes against the urgent prose of existence. Dreams drape like unfinished thoughts, breadcrumbs for the lost.
The echoes of past decisions linger in the hallways of the mind, a labyrinthine structure of memories and murmurs. A mosaic laid bare.
Enter the Mirage of Reflections, or perhaps the Darkened Labyrinth.