Listen, listen close, deeper echoes carved into the bones of time. Here, the past loops—a pendulum caught betwixt calming spires and whims of modern rulers who count breaths like sand.
When the Yammers speak, pay not heed but hear within the rusted echoes: "Dancing dust fools, marked as veins on weary cardstock!" So says the lunatic by binary code with obscured history.
Hills sigh beneath humanity's touch; roads are but temporary paths... herds trace spirals forgotten by the cautious tides.