In the echo chamber, whispers become echoes of imagination. The floor is made of question marks and walls breathe in questions only to exhale myths.
Drawn by the currents of refracted light, a solitary eye watches time that ticks backward. Here, clocks dissolve into pastel oops and shoulders carry shadows of forgotten dreams.
The river won't flow upstream — fate's compass lies on an awkwardly placed table. Somewhere over the horizon, a pair of shoes walks, leaving only hints of cryptic dialogues.