Step, and the sound dissolves into echoes that drift, idle, like oiled whispers on rippling glass. This is not a corridor, but a tunnel wreathed in persistence, where walls crumble to forgotten memories, their touch fading away as though their presence themselves grows absent.
You traverse through voids gathered unto voids, spaces breathing out like the hollow casing of an egg — a promise unfulfilled, waiting, shattered unto itself. Windows stare blankly along the journey, their looks askew, inviting only to invite absence's company.
The air here smells of neglect and dusty tomorrows, the very fabric of the corridor's being aging and ethereal. Each consequential turn reveals farther reaches of shadow; each step leaps an inch toward eternity's limitless embrace.
Antique clocks hang ceaselessly like forgotten guardians, their ticks vanishing before they can caress meaning into presence. Hallucinations of sound pitter-patter far away in the recesses, testament to detritus of time caught eternally within hesitation's snare.
Will you turn left into conceit's door? Or press onward and linger rightward through the shattered pane? Decisions ever hinge within immensity.
Proceed into the Conflux