Once, the moon whispered secrets to oceans untold, cradled in darkness, as destiny waltzed beneath skeletal trees. Here, the paradox: an orbit both paradoxical and banal, defying all logic yet rooted in soil most earthly.
"When do shadows finish their primers on the ink of a sunken dawn?"
In the corridors of this mind, where walls bleed into mysteries, furniture weeps. The chandelier swings inestimable truths, collecting dust like forgotten sins. Walls, ever listening, hear the unsung melodies of a clock that ticks not.
Do you comprehend the paradox of this orbit? A circular path where beginnings mock ends, and ends beg mercy from beginnings anew.