Within the labyrinth of ponderous gates, a hush cloaks the nameless. Memories, like echoes of untried equations, percolate through retinal corridors. A sundial observes its shadow, marking no time but circumference alone. Is this where whispers mend tangled tomorrows?
Beware the habitue of nothing, the absence neither passion nor purpose heeds. Marionettes dance not on the strings they grasp, but on the illusion of an orchestration unheard. Cross over, for there is always another side.