Beneath the labyrinthine veils of perception, lies an expanse unseen—where echoes of oneself twist and stretch. An abyss of possibilities, shrouded not in darkness but in the hazy light of introspection. We stand at the threshold, where each sigh of the universe reverberates, sculpting shapes of what could be...
In a room with no reflections, how does one gauge their silhouette? Curved, warped, refracted in a prism of the soul's own concocting. Memory plays tricks, snapshots caught on glass unreliability— refracted truths that we might embrace or recoil from.
Beyond these portals, whispers of forgotten selves merge with the hushed winds of what has yet begun. Each breath, a testament to the present's fleeting nature. Yet, still, we grasp. We clutch at shadows with hands of time slipping through.
Whispers of the Future Mirrored Voices