In the quiet corridors of eternal dusk, an ironic ember flickers. Is it hope, or merely the stubbornness of a thought unwilling to extinguish?

Consider the futility of a sunrise amidst the perennial twilight—what ambition drives the sun, wheeling endlessly, to rise when it shall sink again?

Questions ripple like muted echoes in this amber reservoir. Are they asking, are they seeking, or perhaps they just enjoy the sound of their own vacuum?

Here, the contemplation remains: Spare Yourself, the Dawn Already Knows.