In the deep, fathomless silence a chorus begins to stir, weaving through the fabric of the void. Here lies no touch, no sensation—yet the echo thrums like a heartbeat in absentia, an orchestra hidden behind the veil.
There are fingers, subtle as shadows, tracing paths upon the skin of the universe. They paint in colors unseen, brushstrokes that ripple through dimensions understood only by the forgotten. Each note of their silent symphony is felt, not seen.
The air vibrates with phantom voices, whispers of dreams left unspoken. And what of touch? What of the unseen hand that guides, that caresses the hollow desolation? In the echo, a pulse, a resonance—like a name written in the sand by a tide that knows nothing of permanence.
In this vast emptiness, the void speaks back. Not with words, but with a presence that lingers at the edge of perception. To listen is to feel, to understand the language of what is not there—yet remains forever.
Whispering Litany