In the grand bazaar of thoughts, where the vendors peddle echos of themselves, one must ask: who is the real merchant, and what exactly is being bought? Each reflection a mirror, every opinion an echo, cascading, reverberating until the truth becomes a mere whisper lost in a cacophony of self.
It is said the walls here have ears, but they are quite self-indulgent and only listen to their own reflections. Inside this chamber, a profound statement is merely fabricated irony, adorned with the patina of satirical sincerity. To step in is to don the robes of a literary doppelgänger, existing in tandem with one’s idealized shadow.
Mirror | Whisper | Fabrication