What do the monks whisper when the moon is but a sliver? Beneath the silence of forgotten stars, they mold the tofu of time. All that's lost finds echo in the flicker of a phantom limb. How does it feel to grasp what is no longer there?
These aren't your ordinary vegetarians, confined to the monastery of tangible essences. They brew the broth of memories, seasoned with the salt of yesteryears. They stretch their arms wide, only to catch a breeze of nothingness. Yet, the touch is not void...
Floating hands, fingers tracing the air, sketching the outlines of dreams unwritten. In this temple, walls are made of abstractions, floors of fleeting moments. Oh, to sit among them, feeling the weight of nonexistences.
I once saw a phantom dance, pirouetting on the edges of reality. The monks played the invisible strings, a symphony of moments. Can you hear it?
A world beneath the surface, a murmur hidden in plain sight. The line of perception blurs like the horizon at dawn. Dare to ask, dare to understand what lies within the phantom.