In the crepuscular groves outside time's managed clutches, stand shadows that echo in windless voids. Shadows whose presence births silent echoes, within worlds plotted like fractal webs upon the stars.
Once, beneath a tenebrous ceiling of auroras in phosphorescent bloom, souls whispered stories only stars had dared to scrawl upon the universe's canvas. Tales of forgotten deities bound in iridescent silk, and of dreams spun from threads of ancient dark.
Through those whispers flickered pensive lights — wraithlike, transient, urging weary travelers to let go of familiar pathways, leading ceaseless into the spiraling embrace of cosmic spires veiled in enigmatic yearning.
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Listen, if you dare, to the murmurings of formless fade, where neither echo nor cry reaches beyond the grasp of veils frayed by twilight's subtle serenade. The melody cannot die; it reverberates within these spectral realms.