In the hush between the breaths of night and the awakening dawn, there lies a stillness that sings. Resting upon this gothic spire, I feel the very pulse of time beneath my feet, and every whispering wind is a word dropped from the ancient scrolls, unreadable yet poignant in its presence.
An eternal ascent with no vision clearer than the paths walked before, veiled in shadows, these corridors of memory reach out, inviting, urging. What is carried forward in the soul's satchel? The echoes, faint and transient, mark journeys known but foreign still—replicas of fleeting spirits in the ether.
It is lonely here among the star-dusted fringes of sky. Am I alone, or are there others veiled in the mist, sharing this haunting melody of existence? Perhaps the mind weaves the fabric amidst a loom of scattered contemplation, threading focus into dreams straying across the expanse of a world that is yet to be known.
Below the crest, the unseen city breathes; calls its inhabitants to and fro through a web of entangled moments. Their fates, like ours, reverberate in sighs silenced to lingering thought, leaving behind constellations formed of choices unmade—nudges into the abyss where friendships with the shadow abound.