"The moon shudders, wrapped in her silken veil of shadows, murmuring secrets to the whispering reeds."
In the hollow of night's embrace, lunatic birds with spectral feathers screech melodies untold, pinging in the vibrational void. Listen; they hum the ancient tales clad in invisible twilight.
"Why do the stars weep when the dawn breaks, staining the horizon with reluctant light?"
A question posed by forgotten tongues curled and curled within the echoing chamber deep in the marrow of night. The answer, possibly, lies embedded in the fabric of dreams, where reality bows in reverence.
Through the rippling echoes, a chant emerges — an ode to the void, a refrain of the forsaken. Come and hear the echoing pulse; feel the vibrations murmur in your bones, for they tell a story.
"Beneath the roots of the cosmos, the lunatic’s laughter spills like stars pouring over a broken sky."
In that laughter, a symphony of the celestial dances, orbiting rhythmically around the axes of sanity and madness. We reach out to grasp it, yet it slips like time through the fingers.