In corridors too narrow for echoes, I escape into a loop.
The tapes wear thin, repeating the questions we dare not ask
in daylight's sovereign light. What is quiet when all is clamoring
for unheard, unheard, unheard…?

Wander these passages, whisper of the past, embrace of the void.
Their restless spirit awaits recognition, yet all must remain unseen. Who listens to these echoes?

Each corridor repeats, mirrors in mirrors.
And what is the meaning when meaning is an illusion?
Quietly restless, this passage walks itself.