In the echelons of forgotten epochs, where secrets linger like fragile dew at dawn, the air pulsates with an ardent energy. The harmonics, oh, the mystical harmonics, sang an ethereal tale of lovers intertwined not merely by flesh but by the unseen sonnets of the universe.
Their voices—a luxurious tempest of serenades—were imprinted upon the stars, where each note revolutionized the heavens, etching melodies into the very fabric of time. Can one fathom the epicantus of light, as it cascaded down with the fervor of a thousand unconsummated passions?
Among the ruins of such melody, lies the silence—an imperceptible yet sweeping vacuum. Yet, even silence has its song, the gentle dissonance of heartstrings plucked too soon or too late. Do you hear it?