The ancient gyre howls under the cryptic moonlight. Scribbled letters, carried by spectral winds, slip through our fingers. In a castle forged from dive-eyed obsidian, whispers draw tales of ivory lost in sepulchral dawns.
The ink bleeds secrets the raven forgets — confessions known but unnamed. Hear the clocks that tick in reverse, mending rifts in somber parchment. Embrace an errant sigh of name-etched marble; it awaits your trembling reply.
Listen— this is the time that circles, the place where shoes break into roses. Touch the edge of cigarette-smoke clouds hanging over forgotten dreams, slid beneath rose-thorn letters. These truths wait, watching.
Transport of celestial mirrors