The spiral, oh how it spirals! In the depths of the uncharted seasons, where crows whistle forgotten tunes, the orbit of insanity cradles the dimensions. Be it the land beneath the azure sea or the skies painted in maroon sugar, every cycle whispers secrets. Secrets that only the mad understand, for the sane are blinded by reason, shackled by the dim light of logicality.
"The moons," he shouts, "waltz in their cages, brass keys clinking against glassy ribs!" The echoes of his laughter dance on the cobbled voices of ancient bridges. Below, a river dreams of endlessness, only to be mockingly tethered to the sun’s relentless rhythm.
In a place where the air itself wears velvet hats, you find the cycle button, dear traveler. Press it not with your desiring hands, for the desire is the scent of ethereal chains. Instead, let it hover, let it spin above your thoughts like a sylvan kite.
Enter the Whispering Forest Grasp the Cogged Timeline