There exists a door that never opens, yet whispers secrets of the forgotten. Stand before it and observe the ocean of clocks ticking in reverse.
Time flows like a river, but rivers dream of oceans, and in their dreams lies the echo of a song unsung by any bird.
Reflect on this: the illusions of time, a relentless march that pauses only in the minds of those who dare to step outside its dance.
One cannot find the exit without first realizing there never was one; the labyrinth is a mirror, reflecting back what you refuse to see.

If all worlds were scripts, inscribed on ancient scrolls, which would be the word that leads to a world not made?
Consider the silence of the stars as they burn brightly in the hollows of an unheard universe, candles on a cosmic cake.
Does the wind ever listen to the trees' dreams, or are dreams merely another form of storytelling to comfort the lonely?
Ponder this riddle: what is the song of a shadow when it dances in the twilight of timeless whispers?

Each labyrinth corridor holds a story untold, an epiphany waiting in disguise, wrapped in layers of unspeakable absurdities.
The walls murmur phrases in forgotten languages, truths that slip like water between fingers of stone.
Absurdity reigns supreme within the castle of reason; it is here logic unfurls its wonky wings and takes flight.
Ask yourself, what is real? Or rather, what semblance of realness do we cling to in the absence of a solid ground?