Somewhere down the winding path of consciousness lies a language, lost in translation.
The whispers of trees speak not in syllables but in the essence, where meaning entwines with breath.
The codes etched into stone are parables of the beings we once were.
Yet, the whisper of time decodes them, murky and elusive. We seek sense, but find stillness.
Click to unlock a hidden message...What remains of those who spoke in forgotten tongues?
Often replaced by echoes vibrating through intricate corridors of thought, pressing against the ribs of memory—