Etched upon silver, a silent scream reverberates, caught
between shadow and twilight.
Do you not remember the night when clocks ceased?
A dance of ink swirling beneath astrolabe skies.
Footsteps on cobbled dreams, whispers traced through flickers of light.
Spider forms playing with words, or resisting futility.
The Protagonist:
An echo clad in velvet brass, seeking resonance in crumbling tales.
Laughed at by mirrored sarcasm.
"Es gibt immer," she murmured, "dass unter wir sind, die wir sind."
Initiate dialogue with absence, transcribe the pause in a breathless video roll.
Rain poured like quenched whispers over distant railway echoes, dissolving bounds and retelling secrets.
Forgotten, yet illustrated in spectral hues.
Did we not see the unsung portrait shimmer?
Await a future seen by those without eyes,
Or perhaps a halt concealed beneath celestial arches.