As the echoes fade, one questions the destination. Did the path ever change, or was it the wanderer who altered the destination within?
In silence, the crypts sigh, holding pieces of the past tight. The stories remain static, yet dynamic in the mind’s eye. The whispers of a clock ticking, ever the same, but the perception shifts, always.
Relics untouched by time, or is it the touch of time that shapes us? The hands reach, yet grasp nothing but air and thought. Void of space, of shape, of form; a paradox, holding space until it's full of its own absence.
Hidden Chambers