If you stare long enough, you might find pieces of your soul, but pieces of another too. Flickering whispers seeping through the edges. What does it mean to look yourself in the eye and not recognize the inside? Once a face known, now only shadows dance there. Time sometimes skips in circles around candles and refracting prisms. Kyra said she'd wait in that mist beyond clarity, a trick of the light, a fold in the mind.
Reflections can't just be sight but sound under certain conditions. Liquid patience and dog's whistle frequencies—none of that matters when the hinges creak without meaning. The scryer scribed. What does he know? Fetch through channels of static, the rosary almost living under vibration to tell stories untold. pathways diverging, merging, and nested—a labyrinth in ears and borders unmarked. It was said that along these lines flowers bloom at midnights' thought, but forgotten gardeners are all that's left.
Could this all just spiral into fiction? Maybe shadows are simply drawbacks of illumination beyond reach. Wouldn't the words slip, pieces of a lost journal's edge? Grains of ink trapped. Between the covers, whispers tinting unwritten futures beckoning elsewhere. Find yourself at the double vision corridor or maybe the browser beams are more forgiving.