Inside me lies a corridor of fragmented mirrors and reflective whispers. A realm where time does not fracture, but curves elegantly, encompassing all spaces, including those void of intent.
The stars, they howl in calculations—algorithms of ancient echoes. If a door swings open in silence, does it sing a truth untold, or are we, the doomed architects of sound, merely delirious?
Navigate the labyrinth of now and then, crossing boundaries etched in vapour. Observe: the lunatic's yammer interweaves with the fabric of reality, breaking and mending at whim.
Do you hear it? An infinitesimal hum from the core—a resonance unbound, like music devouring itself but tasting eternity with each calculated note.
Consider the questions that nest beneath the skin of reason. Why does the circle roll uphill, defying gravity's mundane promises? Perhaps it seeks the zenith of paradoxes where equilibrium and chaos coalesce into a single note.
Truth, it seems, is just a horizon in twilight, ever retreating, ever calling.
Beyond the Horizon Echoes of the Corridor The Zenith Paradox