In a dim-lit chamber, where whispers of ancient spices linger like specters of forgotten feasts, one finds the essence of taste distilled from the ether. Each morsel, a fragment of a lost communion, speaks of harvests unseen, of roots entwined in cryptic soil.
"Do you hear the flavors?" she asked, her voice a wisp of smoke in the candle's flicker. "They murmur secrets of the night, of shadows unfurling in the palates of the damned." As she spoke, the air tasted of aged parchment and midnight's sigh, a gothic ballet of senses.
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