Walk through the threshold where shadows remember whispers. In the void between words, a tapestry of thoughts woven in silence. Yes, the echoes, they tell a story not of time, but of absence; a forgotten way left untrodden, untouched.

echo, echo, echo—it is rhythmic, like forgetting a dream only to wake and chase its ghost. The portal appears opalescent, intermittent in phantom glow. Am I? Mirage touch the horizon, unreal yet notable burns the mind raw with possibility.

Under the stones where no echo lands, in quiet refusal of sound’s argv, does the false dusk remember the suns? Or is it the shock of silver fracturing notions calm? Calm like cold waters over arches unnamed.