A Symphony of Echoes
Beneath the inky veil, whispers rise, and sink, and rise once more, the repeated murmurs of the hollowed. Each syllable a sharp echo, every letter a minute knife. Do they know? Yet the question beneath this specter unbeneath... forever to loop, one more rotation in the wheels of fate.
Wandering corridors of cold stone—murmurs follow like casts of shadow.
"Again, again," they say, for nothing changes within this attic tarred soul.
"Look closer," a glint of something twisted like truth if truths could twist.
In the analytical void, the broken record spins; its silent scream audible only to those who stand too close. Ever-silent the music, yet in heart infinitesimal beats—retracing, reiterating. Penetrate the loop's membrane, the soma shifts. A record's loop, of grave desire.