In the stillness, echoes bounce off forgotten walls, where whispers of memories linger like fading melodies of a forgotten tune.

Once a path walked, now mere shadows stretching in a dance of unfulfilled promises. These specters speak, repeat, and echo endlessly, yet their words fade before I grasp their meaning.

Resonance echoes back an unspoken truth, isn't it? Circular in nature, the broken record of existence that spins yet never completes.

The sight returns, the touch is absent. I observe the wheel of fortune, rusted and motionless, spinning in a rhythm it can never break.

Turning, turning, turning. Each revolution reveals nothing new, nothing new.

What lies beyond the reflection? The endless maze of mirrors distorts realities. Clarity slips through grasping fingers, only to return once more.

Yet, the loop persists. We are but borrowers of moments, returned to the start. Whispers weave around us, remind us, who do they belong to?

Looping, yes. Just like this moment, this silence breaks into another, a repetition. But in the repetition, can there be discovery, or must I breach the walls of time?

The phantom speaks, gently brushing against the thought — perhaps it's an illusion, too.