The inkpot whispers secrets only shadows understand.
Once the cerulean ink swirled, it murmured tales of nights never born, of moons poised to swallow the sun.
The quill, quivering with anticipation, dipped into the well of silence, carving tales on the skin of oblivion.
In the depth, a fish of ink speaks in verses, only heard by those who dare to walk the labyrinth under their eyelids.
The walls dream dreams of hands that don't touch, of voices that echo in places where no ears exist.
encounters/murmur |
inkvision/nyx
Beyond the veil of ordinary, where reality folds into itself, there lies an inkling of the infinite.
What do you hear when you whisper to the inky void?
portal |
echo/imbue