Ah, the winds again. They speak in riddles and echoes, like an old friend who remembers your embarrassing moments better than you do.
Once, I asked the wind why it howls. It replied, "I’m not howling, I’m just practicing my opera." Now, I carry earplugs in case it holds a concert.
Halls of Echoes - A place where echoes are not just sounds, but also bad decisions.
The gusts are like a chatty neighbor with no concept of personal space. "Pardon me," says the wind, "I'm just passing through your hair, nothing personal."
And then there's the matter of leaves. They dance with the wind, laughing at me as they swirl around like tiny helicopters of mischief.
Labyrinth of Gusts - Wind patterns that may or may not resemble a cat, depending on your imagination and the amount of tea consumed.
Sometimes, I wonder if the winds are lost too. If they come from far-off lands where squirrels have PhDs and clouds are made of cotton candy.
But the winds never stop to chat. They brush past me, whispering secrets I can’t quite catch, leaving me with the aroma of existential laughter.
Realm of the Breeze - Enter if you dare, where every breeze has a story and every story is mildly questionable.