The halls are empty; our thoughts follow, echoing footsteps muted in shimmering air, distant as dreams yet startlingly close.
Where do they lead, these corridors of memory? Perhaps they're winding through endless library rows filled with forgotten whispers and dusty tomes.
Or maybe it is here, at this windowless point, where time waits silently hanging in the silken pace of stale air, brushing softly against skin.
Voices... not voices, but echoes like ripples in consciousness, gentle and restless, a silent chorus hums the unsung notes. Do you hear it too?
Imagine a place where the walls breathe, inhaling memories, exhaling dreams, as liquid whispers cascade downhill like clinging mists embracing wandering shadows, deeper in the wood.
Regenerate these thoughts—infinitesimal pebbles along an endless shore—do you become the waves that shape them? Or remain as the shore, unchanged, contemplating the dance of your own making?