This night, the weaver spins again.
Threads of twilight, woven into tales of woe.
A tapestry that folds upon itself, echoes of flickering whispers.
The loom creaks, a voice lost to time, yet never ceased, never ceased.
Do you hear it?
Repeat. Repeat. Underneath the rusted bell, that solemn chime.
Voices caught in the velvet depths, yearning to escape.
Silken strands grasping at dreams that wither, wither.
Somewhere in the shadows, a raven calls.
Perched upon the edge of your memory, its gaze unfaltering.
A realm where reality spins like a dizzy skein of yarn, unraveling.