In the quiet hush of night, when the world softens and blurs, paths unseen before open in the velvet dark. Here, in this ethereal moment, I wander.
There is a whisper of déjà vu, a soft echo of a dream once stitched by unseen hands, unraveling just before waking. I walk through the labyrinth, where corridors twist and turn like the alleys of forgotten cities.
Every step is a fragment, a piece of a mosaic scattered across time. The fragments flicker like stars in a twilight sky, waiting to be woven into a narrative whole.
Memories of paths walked before linger like shadows, forming a tapestry of choices unmade, of doors half-open, sagging on rusty hinges.
And in this place, where reality and reverie entwine, I find reflections of myself—shifting, changing, yet familiar, hauntingly so. I am both the weaver and the woven, bound in the dream's embrace.
Visit other corridors of the mind here or perhaps find solace in those places left unvisited.