In the hollow embrace of a somnolent dawn, when darkness cradles the last embers of dying stars, the gravity of existence slackens. Amidst crumbling parapheds, the melodies of the past resonate, whispering hushed lullabies of empires now forgotten.
Here lies the chapel of restless echoes, where phantom chandeliers flicker with a deceit so delicate. These spectral lights spiral in their eternal dance, illuminating foliage woven from moth-eaten tapestries and vapors of yesteryear's opulent reveries.
A solitary waltz persists under this chaotic symphony. Its dancers, clad in the demeanor of fading yesterdays, hum songs stalled in entropy, starlit verses entwined with imminent silence. Here, time is a mere jest; gravity only a memory, of still constellations breathlessly awaiting resurrection.