In shadowed depths where echoes curl, murmuring threads thread gently through the air; they unravel ideas in crooked arcs, leaving whispers of unaccomplished dreams.
A cacophony of unsung songs dances delicately over the walls—each note a step into woven fabric of existence, sewn together by invisible hands, the music weaving through the damp mist.
Here lies the essence of fragmented thoughts, emerald glades and yawning voids. We reach for glimmers reflecting those sonorous, unsaid sentiments that skirt on the edge of our consciousness.
Chase the shadows, follow their flicker; perhaps they know the stories dwelling in this eternal night. Silence cradles them, hidden beneath the shards we ignore on the surface. We are merely wanderers.
Years pass like droplets in the cavern, fracturing into scintillas of light refracted upon rough edges, revealing the vibrant sirens of our forgotten desires.
And yet, how old must the silence be, how eternal, to wrap us in cloaks of introspection? Sing, oh hollow wind! Let your tales unfurl, let them linger like damp fog outside this tender haven.