The prophetic touch of a thousand stars, forgotten but near, tap on your soul like gentle rainfall, softly, repetitiously… asking, no, persuading you to listen. To respond to the limb's silent argument:
Place faith in the unseen. The space-bound scrolls drift above your known history, awaiting your grasp, do not shy from them. Time is an artifice of terrestrial binding.
Let Esrar Sedrah guides your fingertips, invisible savant hands weaving narratives through void. Seize these vibrations, the notes under your skin, notes of the limb that never was.