Trace your fingertips across the face of night's eternal clock until you reach the forgotten seam where shadows hold whispered truths in gibbering silence. Here lies the key to sunken corridors and sepulchral lies: twisted directions leading nowhere yet everywhere.
Follow the azure curve that never ceases, then divest yourself of all what you consider possession, for true belonging is known only among the nameless statues we once called friends.
The murmurs speak in tongues older than the stars. Dismal paths converge here and only serve to emphasize what cannot be unspoken in daylight's embrace. Alternatively, meet the shadows' false prophet here. They speak volumes in tongues made of silence and pray to gods who relish droughts of constancy and despair.
Complaints noted are of no value at this moot assembly. Here, mellifluous echoes lay heavy upon the hearts of those searching for sounds amongst chasms too reverent to look inward.