Amidst the shadows, a revelry of decay unfolds. The dust-laden pages recount stories unheard, relics of spirits entrapped in the echoes of time's cruel laughter. Lost Souls, they might be, haunting like whispers beneath your pillow, submerged in the murmur of despondent dreams.
Slowly, reality melts like candle wax, spilling secrets into the night. A charred manuscript rests under cobwebbed beams, the ink half-faded, mysteries begging to be unearthed. The hours creep like cold fingers upon your spine. Embrace the decay.
Time, like an executioner, saunters with its jagged scythe. Within the labyrinth of existence, the entropy sows its inevitable harvest. Are you but a witness or a specter in the silence that stretches infinitely?