of worlds, distorted and tinted with lies and memories by perspective .  the layers alternate between true and false, but no one knows which is which.  all they know is that each is stranger than the last.

(what if all of them are false?)

(what if all of them are true?)

(what each layer is neither, but a muddle of self and circumstances and fog?)

each layer is a labyrinth of time that tunnels in and out of itself like a knot.  people wander through blind and dazed, carving years of verse and murals into the walls in layers, layers and layers of words and swirling scribbled sketches. that's all we are and all we leave - graffiti.  everyone dies in the labyrinth. no exit exists, just another labyrinth with new graffiti. there's no getting lost, at least, when the path you choose is your path and therefore right.