Streams converge without consent, flowing past, through, or perhaps under: beneath the surface, echoes of whispers long ceased. Tick-tock-tick-tock in the labyrinth, not of stone or brick but of thoughts like shadows, cast by the fleeting sun in a world caught in twilight. Endless corridors where the right turn leads to looped remembrance, left promises nothing, with doors unopened in both directions, paths crawling back on themselves and forth, a dance of static motion.

Consequences written in ink that bleeds through paper to the mind, scribbles of the subconscious on the walls of the unseen: Dreams of clocks. Clocks of broken wheels. Wheels turning silently.

Echoes roam restless, seeking solace in the unheard melodies of forgotten songs. Wisps flicker, drawing attention, leading toward nothing or everything, contingent on the gaze's intent.

The air feels heavy, laden with riddles—the air current bends at angles unknown, unpredictably, shaping narratives amidst silence.