In the great orchard of night, where stars are but grains of sand in a cosmic desert, the fruit of madness ripens. A voice echoes, a melody unuttered, a chorus of the unseen beckons. Shall you heed its call?
A wooden clock, splintered and asthmatic, ticks the time of shadows. Days are measured not in hours but in the turning of veils. The lunatic dances, a marionette moved by cosmic strings, in the ballroom of the undefined.
The paths diverge in this nebulous wood. Futures intertwine, aspirations unravel. To facilitate is to weave, to endeavor is to dream awake. O traveler, what tapestry dost thou wish to unfold?