The door creaked with the lament of lost hours, sighing the air thin with dreams. Many tales
lingered,
yet only the same one bled through the keyhole. The tapestry unravelled, whispering in forgotten tongues.
A parable found in the margins of nowhere: The clock does not tick, it weeps. When the bell tolls,
the silence screams louder than it ever could.
- less than eternity, but certainly more than mere moments -
Beneath the shadow of the falling moon, skeletons wind their secret dances. Upon the
altar
of rusted aspirations, the vessels of dreams forgot their names.
The Great Emptiness spoke... of hollowed laughter echoing in catacombs
so extensive they create their own winds. Yet, the echoes are utterly alone.