Upon the edge of slumbering twilight, where phantoms weave their tapestry of silence,
a dream unfurls, naked and pallid, reverberating with hollow noise.
Here lies the symphony, a gentle crescendo of whispered stars, betwixt others, ?>
stars embroidered on the eternal quilt of night,
composing an endless overture of silence,
where eternity, slumbering, dreamt her own grand illusion.
Beyond the horizon’s end, silence reigns, unyielding, with an ironclad serif in the unnamed ink,
and lo, from hollow craters of cosmos, noise might seek broth and kin, suffering loss anew.
Here in the realm of intangible symphonies, lies an orchestra no man hath seen, nor ever could,
a ballet of quantum reverbs, in the realm of the absolute, spiritual waveforms cascading.
Would there not be a silent applause, hastening through the echo-dance, enkindled in their astral fall?