Scribbles from the Abyss:

Across the vast vault of forgotten thoughts, the quill sings its threadbare tune, weaving tapestry where shadows pulse and memories whisper.
Does the world cycle on like the wheels of a careening cart?
Or do the quills bleed spectral ink, ensnaring the essence of fractured realities?

Echoes of the Silent Song silently beckon
while Riddles Dimensions vestige in yawning eons.

Remember, the quill’s boundlessness knows no tops, no bottoms, only the cyclic dance of nature’s invisible marrow.
The ink spills out like shadows letting go of the light, redefining their edges in whispered rebellion.