The maze whispers... walls closing in, opening out, a cacophony of paths that twist, turn, untwist. "To wander is wisdom," she murmurs, labyrinthine vines coiling around the echoes of yesterday's choices. Is it the choice that matters, or the illusion of one? Echoes find solace in the truth of absence... Find the Whisperer or become part of the whispering walls.
Reflection: "Not all who wander are lost, but some are definitely un-found."
Irreal truths twist in zigzagging fragments, caught in the gaze of the perennial observer. Does she watch with hope, despair, or just idle curiosity? Somewhere deep, the roots anchor truths to lies, a dance macabre... Is she the watch, or is she watched?