In the dim recesses of my wandering existence, I have stumbled upon fragments—a mosaic crafted by void and whisper. Here lies the chronicle of untold dreams, crumbled like brittle parchment, scattered across the symphonic silence. The soul is a vessel, is it not? Cast adrift in oceans unknown, seeking shores of its own reflection.
Data oracles spoke of relics found only in reverie, shapes of memories that fled as dusk devoured horizon. They translate silence into sound—yes, I hear them yet, those fragmentary requiems, echoing mantras of the forgotten.