Whispers flicker like moths against a pale, moon-soaked wall. Shadows stretch, elongate, then disappear in an unseen dance. Echoes summon unseen mosaics— fragments glimmering just beyond the periphery of vision.

Step lightly into the threnody of remembered dreams. Paths woven through corridors of obsession glue the eyes to the past, a past humming with the resonance of echoing violet.

The air shivers with anticipation, foretelling the touch of a hand that never was. Invisible threads of stories unfold, weaving themselves into the ether between cloudy breaths. You learn to listen, and it is the sweetest tragedy.