I stand upon the precipice, eyes wide to the Dreambound Coven, where
whispers pirouette in darkness, the void offering both a curse and an
unbidden caress.
How curious, this delight, do crafted hands carve it from ash and despair?
The moon hangs low, pregnant with secrets too viscous to spill upon mundane salons.
As I ponder, gothic fingers stretch towards me—an embrace eternal,
faceless, yet curiously tender. In dreams, do we find our marrow, our musings of
midnight where the mind unravels like gossamer strands vaulting over yawning
chasms?
Below these pages—simple pixels tangled with threads of sleep—
bombastic symphonies of the neutrals resolve. One lashes out in harmonic
revolt, free yet circumscribed by the cosmic knell.
You ask, is this tale foretold, sketched in the sables of prophetic
parchment? A surprise—oh delightful, no less—igniting echoes from longing
sepulchers.