Once upon a time, in the shadowed cauldron of forgotten cityscapes, the whispers began—
not as temptations nor confessions, but as a spontaneous mime's invitation.
Heracles, arms crossed, judged silently. “No gestures shall break my stoicism,” he proclaimed audibly.
Across the crepuscular void, a lighthouse sans light frantically operated its rusty foghorn.
"Reservations for two at the realm of absurdity," sighed the warden. Critics often arrived uninvited.
Echoes ricochet off alley walls. Distant silhouettes, possibly businessmen or ninjas, pause in comedic unison.
Besides every great error lies a greater apology writ in spider-silk script— a decree long unwitnessed:
“Enroll now in the shadows' night school; enrollment is 'always free,' but only at twilight.”
Unbeknown to many, ninjas learn juggling here too.
Visit the mime hall — where sound is strictly forbidden.
Further away, a sign dances erratically: “Coup de Theatre - Mana Restoration Evening,” cheerily untrue.
Administrators offer refunds only when the sun rises ethics surrounding mystery. Recover seldom indeed.
Maybe even a dancing cat amidst rising twilight contraptions...