In the absence of the sun's lucent grace, the whispers unravel their crimson trails against the tapestry of silence. You, a solitary traveler clutching your creased Tormentia dreaming map, wander in shaded exultation. Nothing follows you, except the specter of shadow which dances lazily on the precipice of your vision.
Limbs of willow trees stretch their emerald atrial vines, grumbling unfriendly sonnets into the dusk air. It tickles your nose, this wild earnestness, and soothes the daydreams enough for mischief to sneak its hand deep into your pocket. Stars shiver with delight, unbridled at the extensions of your soul carried forth in essence before you.
Beyond, in every murmur a story thrums, tethered to the untamed splendor of your skies waking at twilight. It beckons you to six tiny jarring windows in time, briefly casting their riotous lights. Venture open-eyed below these horizons, but guard your bleeding heart's desire: the shadows will too read your thoughts.
Chase flickers of oyster moons or unconceal the abyss sing borne by sinuous echo. They say the lanterns at the gate can guide you somewhere splendor yet tasted.