In the folds of a crimson dusk, the ancient lines whisper echoes of a time suspended, where every angle cradles a secret, every vertex, a silent witness.
The geometry speaks in tongues, etched upon the stone, a melancholic dance of shapes, static yet alive, yearning for the touch of hands that no longer exist.
Through desolate corridors of history, we trace our fingers along the edges, feeling a nostalgia for lives unlived, paths untraveled, destinations unknown.
What stories lie in the crimson shadows of these ancient geometries? What forgotten truths weave through the fabric of their lines and forms?
Beneath the weight of solitude and time, the geometry remains, a silent testament to the beauty of what once was, and perhaps, what may yet be again.