Amidst the shadowed corridors of slumber, voices dwell in a haze of twilight, quiet, incessant—the echo of thousand dreams unfurling. Worn pages from forgotten heritages, ink smudged by longing, this is where silence speaks, and the fragile veil quivers to the pulse of tomorrow's regret.
Is this where time falters? In the luminescence of moribund thoughts sealed beneath ghastly glee, lay fettered chains of restless yesterdays, stark outlines drawn by a phantom lingerer in your dreams.
From a deserted cradle, the whispers weave in an abysmal chant—“Sleep, oh wretched traveler, awake not! Reside within this quiet tempest. Here, the air thickens; sweet oblivion tangles; embrace the phantom's kiss.”
Across the arching despair lie dilapidated memories—half-formed, swirling: echoes of laughter beneath a decaying moon, skeletal fingers stretching out, probing the borders of fleeting consciousness. They beckon you to glimpse the still-living shadows.
Collector of Dreams: a riddle, a mirror reflecting anguish's visage, steeped in leather-bound tomes and inked in the blood of yore.