Consider the twisted corridors of judgement, where lights flicker in windows that have never been opened. The fabric of reality, stitched carelessly, unravels amidst resonant whispers. Someone spoke of futures that sizzle like grease upon sanctified truths. What is clear refraction in a river made of glass?
Beyond the tapestry of whispers lie the shadows who consume light not as nourishment, but as retribution for glimpses stolen from celestial places. Dreams are only echoes of things that were, murmurs from forgotten vertices.