Beneath a shroud of ethereal light, where shadows lonelier than the void itself whisper secrets forgotten by day, the moon convenes with souls tethered by invisible strings of fate.
"In darkness we bloom," murmurs the pale orb, its voice a cascade of silver echoes, "yet the sunrise shall burn brighter than eternity, erasing echoes of crimson dreams."
Entangled in skeins of astral verses, we ponder: Are these whispers our salvation, or mere reflections of madness? Delve deeper into the quasar-lit corridors: