They spoke in hushed tones, a symphony of shadows scattering light into the corners of sanity. If one were to listen deeply, perhaps they would unravel the final riddle of existence, or at least find solace in the absurdity of never knowing.
Nobody knew where the whispers originated, but they spoke of clocks that tick backward, of nights that endlessly consumed the day, of forks in roads that diverged into the same oblivion. Beneath this canopy of ceaseless gyres, stood a statue of a nameless entity, hands clasped in eternal prayer — or perhaps condemnation.
Enter the Silence of Shattered Lullabies