The world mirrors itself in the puddle of self-concern, each ripple a monument to obsolescence.
In rooms adorned with gilded whispers of what could have been, walls whisper forgotten names, echoing only with the stories of the never-become.
Steps taken on paths of transient flames imprint shadows that flicker with the pulse of cosmic neglect.
We are but echoes in search of a source, transient voids unraveling in the tapestry of time's endless loom.
Such desires dance across the void, weaving tales of vanishing stars, each pursuit a droplet in the ocean of vanity.
Discover the Labyrinths of Longing