In the twilight of unheard symphonies, where ink meets the horizon's embers, the Conductors weave a tapestry. Shadows draped in luminescent whispers, murmurs echoing in silence, the world's pulse, a secret sonata.
Here lies the garden of unspoken words, where thoughts grow like wild roses, untamed, untouched, and free. Rivers of time run backward, carrying dreams along their banks, melodies lost in the ripples of memory.
In the antechamber, the clock ticks not, its hands spinning tales of forgotten lore, the starlit abyss, an open book. Once read, never understood, the pages a swirl of cosmic dust, the authors, mere dust themselves.
Oh, how the planets dance!
With gowns of nebulae and tiaras of cometary ice, they waltz through the void, conducted by a maestro unseen, their music an eternal echo, in the depths of Melosen.