The moon, she dances overhead, mocking the sun, fair yet aloof. You wander the corridors of an ancient memory, walls lined with dusty tomes and phantom whispers that cling to your thoughts like damp shadows. Do you remember passing through this hallway before?
Look closer, for between the obsidian lines are written stories of time slowly decaying—a salvation of messages lost in the chasms of the unrecorded past, spinning in perpetual rhythm, endless...
Drawn axioms, lines of cryptic equations smeared in coincidence, forming a dialect understood by none.