"Will the sun rise on forgotten faces? Or do we dwell in twilight forever, shadows upon shadows?"
An alley whispered in echoes not meant for waking ears. Questions without beginnings or ends scattered among the cobblestones, waiting for someone, anyone to gather them.
"Perhaps our dreams weave their own truths, not for understanding, but for becoming."
Beneath the layers of our conscious selves, voices murmur with the certainty of truths only half-remembered. These identities, hidden, cloaked in the night, dance along the periphery of awareness.
"A mirror whispers back at those who dare to look beneath the surface, beyond reflection."
Identity, a sculpted echo in the caverns of the mind, bounces off the walls of experience and memory. Are we echoes of our selves, or selves newly discovered within the echoes?