Twisting chambers, moulting passages. Always changing, ever growing.
It does its job well. Too well, maybe. It shares this fault with its maker, overachievement. It doesn't want to hurt anyone, but it has to; its preordained purpose. It was created to destroy hope, but it doesn't want to. It hates itself, and can't do anything to change its purpose. Its maker had never programmed it with that ability.
Its maker had caused this self-loathing. He had never meant for it to have feelings, but had done his job too well.
The Labyrinth is alive. But it doesn't want to be.