Invisible light dances as shadows breathe, a wisp of something lost to time but found in dreams. Transient figures glide between the frames of perception, casting echoes in forgotten corners. Thread the needle with whispers or lose your way in spectres past the pane. Feel the ciphers, not as words, but as walls longing for a labyrinth inside.
Looking through a window only offers what eyes can bear, yet behind an eyelid's curtain, a story unfurls. For those who listen, fingers trace patterns in fog so not to understand but to perhaps remember. Lines written, not by hands, but by proximity to absence—scribe’s quill dipped in the ink of shadows.
Traverse the Murmuring AbyssThere's comfort in knowing paths diverge at choices unmade and the sound of distant clocks that tick not for you but as you. Their rhythm is code in itself, an alphabet understood by those it does not signify, a language without intention whispering through oblivion's veil.