The world, a masterclass in irony. Literary giants, crippled by the simplicity of their forgotten tea, wander. Niobe weeps but no one remembers why. The untouched threads of intention weave complex patterns on the fabric. Silent screams, once they break free, find no audience.
Are we not the shadows of our own chaotic genius? Treading paths laid down by those who fell before us, their intentions written in sleep. /dream... awake - the irreversible choice.[]
In the corridors of intention, whispers of purpose vanish like Egyptian hieroglyphs in a rainstorm. Meandering pathways traced by the footprints of our alter egos. Do these roads mean where they tread? Or paths of least resistance masquerading as grand designs?
Hear the Murmurs Read the Silent Script The Mask of Shadows