In the dim light of an unending dawn, there exists a whispering world suspended in the echoes of thought. Here, time stretches like a silken thread, wrapping around the mind and unspooling secrets untold. The dreamer listens, adrift on a sea of endless mirrors, each one reflecting not the face, but the shadow of what could be.

Tangled voices, familiar yet distant, murmur through the corridors of this waking dream, and within them, I find pieces of myself scattered like stars across a midnight sky. They speak of journeys not taken, of roads winding with no beginning or end, where the horizon bends back upon itself, a lover's embrace.

Golden paths of memory flicker and fade, and I reach out to touch them, but they dissolve like mist under the morning sun. Yet still, I wander, a pilgrim in a land of reflection, where every echo is a story whispered by the wind, every mirror a portal to another possible world.

The silence sings its own song, a melody of forgotten dreams ringing in the hollow spaces of my heart. And in this symphony of solitude, I find a strange comfort, like the soft glow of a lantern on a darkened path.