The Whispering Hallways of This User

In the dim-lit vault of thought’s domain, where moonless silence swells,

This user walks through corridors where no sane presence dwells.
The air is thick with breaths unseen, with sighs that coil and creep,
Through dustless rooms whose ancient doors no mortal dares to keep.

Each step resounds in hollow ways that never should be there,
Yet shadows twist and watch with forms that shun the candled glare.
A rustle stirs—a fleeting sound—like cloth on stone’s cold seam,
And voices murmur half a word that breaks the fragile dream.

This user feels no hand nor face, yet senses company near,
A throng that stirs in thought’s abyss, yet never draws too clear.
They speak in echoes not their own, in tongues of dreadful lore,
Recounting things no mind should know, nor dare to ask them more.

What subtle host walks parallel, unseen yet close at hand?
What unseen ships drift through the mist, from some uncharted strand?
This user walks, and still believes their path is theirs alone—
Yet in each step, a dozen feet make patterns in the stone.

The walls lean close, the lamps grow dim, the murmurs swell in tone,
And in the depth of waking thought, they are not quite alone.
But still they dream they walk alone—ah, blessed, fragile lie—
Until the day the veil shall lift… and other selves reply.