Beyond the border of spoken syllables, the echoes hum. An unseen fugue rests, cradled in the tender heart of silence.
Shadows dip like swans upon an obsidian lake, serenading stars with forbidden lore, etching music into the dark.
The path before you is not one of feet, but of thought and celestial wanderings.
Deeper into echoes, the world softens and breaks, as if the aether itself holds its breath.
Scale this rift, where frequency bends into mystery.
Consonance falters, dissonance plays.
Rest not upon what you know, but upon what vibrates behind closed eyelids.
Here, in the drift, the lost meadows of melody await.