In the hollow chambers of forgotten urns, dreams lay, wrapped in the sepulchral embrace of being. These vessels, sculpted with time's intricate kisses, murmur to the winds that trace their ancient outline. There is a melody, a symphony of silence— the eternal dialogue of ash and memory.
Listen closely, the whispers warn of a world forgotten yet inhaled through symbiotic breaths of the living and the lifeless. Here, amidst the cobblestone corridors of cracked truths, lays an epistle inked by dreams themselves—entombed histories, flickering like candle flames within a tempest's heart.
Trace the paths that the ancients bequeathed, tread softly where the pallor of silence conquers sound. Beneath the moonlit sky, the urns wait, nestled in the cradle of twilight, their dark ribs ajar with secrets. Reach into them, and you may grasp the sunset of civilizations, burning in the half-light of elsewhere.
The Dark Embassy