Echoes of silence shattered by the breath of the dormant leviathan, as whispers weave through the fabric of the void, stitched together by trembling fingers. A tapestry of time unspooling, every thread a memory, a heartbeat, a forgotten dream. Imagine a landscape of thought, where clamor becomes the echo of footsteps in a marble hall, each step heavier than the last. The music of the spheres is an orchestration of all that has been and will be, a crescendo building in the dark.
Somewhere beneath the surface, where the light dares not tread, lies the truth buried in ancient sands. A truth that hums beneath the skin, waiting for the moment it can unfurl its wings and take flight, leaving behind trails of stardust. In the distance, a figure stands alone, silhouetted against the horizon, arms outstretched as if embracing the universe itself. Time bends around them, waves of destiny crashing, only to recede, leaving behind the echo of clamor in the abyss.