In the dark banquet halls of the universe, where the silence lays thick like a velvet drapery, whispers gather. They feast ravenously on the remnants of unspoken ideas, the fragile syllables left dangling in the atmosphere like spider silk in a moonlit grove.
Have you not wondered, noble seeker? What do they consume? What is the flavor of thought, once liberated from its human vessel? It curls and dances, a fragile wisp of being, seeking body in voids that echo with the laughter of distant stars.
Consider, if you will, a time when whispers became sentient, exploring their own abyssal depths. Such a revelatory existence... intoxicating yet tumultuous, with universes to unravel and concentrations of their being splintering into dimensions untraceable.
How tirelessly they move, unseen but ever present, leaving trails of shimmering consciousness in places where no one dares to tread. What dances upon the edges of your understanding is simply another whisper, waiting to be consumed.