When the lone streetlight begins to hum, the whispers of forgotten words seep through. Time does not bend, yet it dances judiciously among the shadows of memory. I walk, step by step, an echo of an echo reverberating, a rhythm in asymmetry.
"But who am I if not the sum of these reflections, this labyrinth of light and dark?”
It is Wednesday, but is it truly so? The calendar mocks with misplaced days scuttling across a desert of thought grains, trapped in amber time. An echo is heard, again and again, an unnamed melody that charts the tide between consciousness and dreaming.
Tunnels spiral through mind lands, unseen doors hover just beyond vigilance. A glimpse, a chance—pure symphony without melody, resounding without reason. The old telling spins its web, catching wishes as whispers turn to smoke.
Was it the whisper "or was it the thought itself, a secret begging the echo of a deadly embrace" that bound her hand?
Do you remember the labyrinth of light amidst the ruins? Where shadows speak and the catacombs laugh, their mirth a chilling resonance with no source in sight.