Have you ever felt like the stories we forget were carefully hidden inside a labyrinth of our own making? I leave breadcrumbs, and somehow, they lead me back to myself.
The old typewriter in the attic occasionally clicks its keys, crafting lines of poetry only understood by the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. I think they whisper secrets back to me.
There's a comfort in the chaos, a warm hug from scattered thoughts. We laugh at how they jumble together, forming echoes of echoes, like a collage of our subconscious.
"I wish I knew why," the writer said, staring into the distance as the ink flowed effortlessly, guiding them down familiar yet strange paths.
Curious for more? Follow the echoes to other realms: