Have you ever found yourself staring, almost entranced, at the face of something that endlessly folds in on itself, a paradox that dances just beyond your understanding?
The city streets weave this way and that, like a friendly rabbit warren but with a far less genial purpose, drawing you into their embrace, whispering secrets you can't quite grasp, roads that feel strangely familiar yet compellingly foreign.
Your mind, that labyrinthine archive of not only the things you've seen but the things you think you remember seeing, fills and fills until it too becomes a suspenders-of-disbelief situation, faith in the road ahead trailing behind as your own thoughts loop and double back like a lyrical melody without end.
So here, in this loop of mirage and myth, where dreams touch the echoes of untold paths, you might wonder what lies beyond the bend or the next intersection—
hall of reflections, or perhaps the endless spring.