In an era where whispers take the form of zigzags, the voice finds itself ever so dislocated. Like an unwanted telegram in the email age, it speaks of ironies draped in satin.

could we have imagined, back in the time when companies were made of secrets and layers like lasagna, that a voice could zigzag its way through the dark like a drunken moth? Would Alexander have taken to his phone, texting "conqueror of the week" updates to his followers on the Insta-Messaging platform?

Labyrinth or Canyon: choices echo the absence of choice. Reflective pools or shallow puddles, both await with open arms.

The voice, zigzagging with intent, whispers through the corridors of time: "Onward, upward, and perhaps inward, but who knows where that leads?" An anachronism perhaps, or just a modern twist of fate's kaleidoscope.