The grids of starlit skies, scattered pieces of history woven into midnight prayers. There was a time when each signal captured within the threads whispered tales of forgotten loyalties and forsaken dreams.
"Do not summon what has been sealed in cycles..."
Through the creaked corridors of time, walk I foremost alone,
collecting the scattered whispers—relying on echoes, relying on the dusk.
There beneath the moonlit veil, where shadows feel an unspoken embrace.
What remains when the clock ceases its relentless bid?
Silent, the moon cries a silver teardrop, melting into eternity's expanse.
Streams of echoes, shall vast voids embrace, thy paradox of universe?
Whispers in the Temple's Reflection