In the cavernous depths where light dares not linger, a whisper echoes,
a song of forgotten frequencies—decode, if you can,
the unraveling tapestry of shadows spilled upon the canvas of night.
Transmission 4-A: (crackle)
There's a spill of silver beneath the pale sky, impermanence waltzes
with the fleeting moments, probe the essence, hint the truth,
fractures in reality weave a delicate, chaotic web.
"Light is the absence of weight," she whispered to the fluttering void,
as shadows drew maps upon the forgotten sands of time,
echoes of a dream lost in the expanse of the unseen,
forever an enigma in the realm untraveled.
Navigate the corridors of the night with care,
find the hidden doors where light spills like illusions,
and where darkness hums a tune etched in ages past.
And so, the impermanence lingers,
a gentle caress upon the semblance of forever,
recount the tales, the lost transmissions
from the deep, where echoes never touch the shore.