In the fog-laden crevice of an indecipherable mind, the essence of being echoes softly:

"To exist is to navigate the indistinct stream,
flows of consciousness intertwining, nebulous whispers curling within mists."

What is the shape of an unspoken thought?
When does a whisper become a path, a downpour of musings lost to the slopes of an internal landscape?

Through corridors of perpetual dusk,
emperors of silence claim their dilapidated thrones.