What echoes through corridors of forgotten time, like a whisper undone, a threadbare dream?
Let the celestial arbours tremble.
Invoke the invisible winds that rustle amongst echoing dreams.
What is the melody heard at dusk?
Among these spectral reflections, one theosopher claimed, "the world is but a theater of silent screams." Yet the audience remained faceless, gaunt silhouettes against an eternal stage.