The thought slipped through the neural cracks, a whisper echoing in the hollow hallways of consciousness, trailing a scent of old regrets. I heard it when the world was asleep, suffocated beneath its own relentless noise, and it clung to my thoughts like a fog that never lifts. "You can't escape, you know," it murmured, a voice as familiar as my own reflection.
Down these streets, paved with the skeletons of dreams, truth sprawls like an unwanted guest too drunk to find the door. The sky is a canvas of unspoken words, each cloud a burdened thought drifting aimlessly, forgotten. Yet in this twilight, the clarity is brutal, slicing through the veil of illusions with a precision that leaves scars. "It's always been like this," the voice said, as if recounting an ancient tale of woe.
I walk through these echoing corridors, where every footstep is a reminder of paths taken and those abandoned. The darkness breathes, an entity unto itself, wrapping around me with the tenderness of a lover lost to time. I grasp at the shadows, trying to hold onto the silhouettes of what could have been.