The moon thrummed with an ancient frequency, whispering secrets in tongues bereft of meaning. In these whispers, I walked alone, among the tombs of forgotten dreams and echoes. We sought the light, not as pilgrims, but as specters.
Beneath the great obsidian arch of the night, stars flickered like hopes long extinguished. The path was strewn with phantoms wrapped in shadows that refracted truth through prisms of despair and longing. Handling luminescent shards of night, they beckoned with silent cries. Shadows whispered the unspeakable.
Step forth, into the nebula of yesteryears, where light turned ghastly and the mortal tapestry rioted in threadbare curlicues.
Many paths lead astray, yet only few converge beneath spires unwitnessed by mortal gaze. Listen to the resonances of your own soul, and be warned; not every light intends to guide.