In the margins of existence, where words sculpt nothingness into form, I found a mirror.
What is ink but the silence between night and dawn? Its whispers are loudest when the world dreams.
Beyond the horizon lies a bookâthe cover closed, the pages unwritten, the meaning... undefined.
Each stroke of the quill records the ephemeral dance of shadows on a wall, unseen, undone.
The truth hides not in the ink itself, but in the space it carves from forgetfulness. An endless abyss.
What secrets do you hold, cornered by certainty and doubt?
Reflections in Echo | Hidden Paths | Orbit of Oblivion