In the whirling void, a phantom sensation brushes lightly against the edges of consciousness, a whisper of a forgotten touch. Hands that were not hands, yet grasping at the fabric of now. Between the junctions of perception, where senses interlace and dissolve, lies the echo of an ethereal waltz.
Contemplation on the fringes, where reality dwindles and reconfigures into the silhouette of desires unmet. The palpitating bylines of existence write a script with ghostly letters, ceaselessly narrating the journey not taken, but felt in the marrow. Contours dissolve; substance converts into shadows and intricacies detangle themselves with a rhythmic gallop—all led by mystic followers into a parade of unseen specters.