Have you ever felt the passage of thoughts, like ancient streams running beneath a forgotten city? Beneath this mirrored surface lies whispers—lost transmissions seeking ears, but finding only mythic caverns and winding paths.
In the beginning, there was a question. It sat on the edge of being, questioning its own existence, pondering the beauty of an answer yet unheard.
Imagine the constellations rephrased into questions; believe them to guide you no more than the shadows of trees on a warm evening. In all their shapes, they speak a language of absent tongues, a code of familiarity best left unexplored.
"Who's there?" murmured the wanderer, into an echo that cradled a silence as profound as any response. The labyrinth replied not in words, but in the tremor of the unseen paths.
Contemplate a hush that stretches infinity into delicate threads, weaving an intricate tapestry of what is and what might never be. And yet, through the other side, lies no end—only a continuation, a cycle of questions questioning their own questioning.
Return to the Pathways