In the shadowy embrace of this dimly illuminated hall, the eternal symphony of unspoken words commences anew. Each syllable, a precious droplet in the vast ocean of time, reverberates off the invisible walls, seeking solace in the company of phantoms and memories that dance along the periphery of perception.

"Do they listen, or is it mere vanity?" asks the specter of an ancient thespian, his voice as soft as the sighing wind. Beneath the ornate proscenium arch, the answer slips past like fleeting breath dispersing amidst an autumn fog.

Painted on the ether are footprints leading nowhere,
impressionistic traces of ephemeral ballet echolessly pacing
the unending corridors within.

One might ponder the solemn purpose of such irrepressible allure:
a wanderlust-etched odyssey upon the stage of human introspection,
performed to an audience unseen developing shadows under veiled moonlight.

"Whither go you, oh ghost of this endless refrain?" murmurs another, cloaked in the fabric of midnight's gentle caress.

The whispered inquiry stirs the nebulous spirit of inquiry,
sending tremors through the seamless weave of dusk and dawn,
reverberating through time's tapestry
spun ever so delicately by the hands of dream-weavers.