Beneath the undulating waves of obsidian dusk, a whisper echoes through the corridors of forgotten lullabies. Shadows embrace the remnant echoes of the once-vibrant cries, now softened to mere murmurs juxtaposed against the eternal silence of the deep.
Here, on the precipice of the unseen, every fleeting thought crystallizes, becoming statues of melancholic grace, yearning for touch but drawing only longing gazes. Below, the tide dances, an endless waltz ignorant of its audience but enthralled in a choreography of seduction and solitude. Who can sing such songs in the absence of light?