"Do you feel that echo, like a whisper of shadows weaving through time?"
- Elysium, gardener of transient lands, paused among the shards of yesteryears.

"They traverse the clock's skin, leaving imprints of wantons in moments boundless."
- An enigmatic voice pierced the fog of recollections unworthy of recall.

"Swim against the oily tide of what's known; find the streams where moons lie pushed far upstream."
- The echo's chorus retreated as a vibrant ripple through unresolved dimensions.