Beneath the weave of ancient boughs, a voice hums—achronological and ever so elusive. Are these thoughts mine, or filaments knit from someone else's dreams whispered in my ear? The cypress stands as timeless as the questions I carve into its bark, but it never answers. Why would it?
A cypress labyrinth where paths grow tangled, yet the compass spins willingly into a void of knowing. Water droplets slide down needles like thoughts slipping through grasping fingers. Reflection puddles, do they echo back truth, or lies in disguise?
Shattered Glass: Echoes