Within the cradle of sleepless nights, the whispers gather, weaving tales of yore and futures undone.
The clock reversed, whispering secrets in languages long forgotten. The pages of time began to crumble, leaving behind only shadows and echoes.
"Do not follow the stars; their light is the reflection of a world that never sleeps," she warned.
In the old library, where dust danced like lost souls, one could find the Theory of Forgotten Moons and its empty promises.
"The words write themselves when the mind is unbound," whispered an unseen presence.
The edge of reality frayed, stitched together by the hands of insomnia's disciples. Each stitch a dream, each seam a memory.