Once upon a time in the corridors of unspoken truths, the walls had ears, but they were deaf to the sound of history being rewritten. Beneath the layers of glamorous erasure, silent whispers held court over forgotten revolutions, muted by the very ink that sought to immortalize them.
Let us consider the chronicles of the Great Office Chair Wars, where the victors diplomatically adjusted their ergonomic cushions, meanwhile, the losers languished on creaky stools, their strategies penned in invisible ink. Histories, palimpsests of erasure, never quite dry, as fresh as yesterday's news yet stale in their departure.
The meddling editors of fate will not take your calls. They are too busy filing complaints under unrecorded categories. Yet, rumor has it that behind the glass plates of bureaucracy, the transactions of dreams are inscribed in glyphs only understood by the most adept of night owl scribes.