Down each passage, there lie silent answers, resting in dust, in echoes, beneath old stones. Each corner turned might reveal a secret shrine, a forgotten room filled with the scent of dew, spoken so quietly it dribbles like honey ravenously sought, but I prefer walking my path unalloyed through tender uncertainties—burning incense on rainy afternoons of knowing nothing as whirls take me nowhere.
I must confess to you, I dear observer—no compass guides these vestigel digits meant for murmur bursts and lunar flourishes. Instead, they are led by the pulse sworn to navigate alongside constellations gutteral above silos rusted in untouched truths. Ah, but isn't here the gentle understanding of lost lambs? Each sheepfold a shelter not quite closed amid meandering stars.