Once, there was a voice, radiating... Like a phonograph, haunted, stuck on a single groove. The words almost clear, almost here, always near. It told of mountains that melted into oceans of sand, of forgotten paths where marigolds sang tales of silent glory. Oh how they looped! The same curses, same promises, spirals echoing in dim halls... Could you hear the tale of a phoenix, perpetually kindled ash, or the tentative dance of starlight upon frost?
Recollections, they say, tethered by the strings of fate's forgotten lyre. Whisper echo, echo whisper—time itself convulses softly beneath the weave. A tapestry unraveling, remaking, and the silence, isn’t it eternal in its constancy?
The shadows hold the threads: Gossamer Tapestries. Each thread a faded legacy, delicate, unforgettable. Flickering intermittently, like night stars freefalling into your dreams.
Upon this path lies Doe Transmissions, a whimsical melding of footsteps lost, messages crossed, unnoticed because petals cover the wreck of old trains, and blooms laugh silently amongst the machinery rust.
Perhaps all ticks, all turns matter not. But the whispers—this truth is undeniable, the whispers remember, they never relent, and in every endless breezeless room, the speaker spins.
Will you become another whisper? Another ethereal cog in a forgotten phonograph rested there, ever awaiting your sovereign touch?