Upon these stone canvases, whispers of time remain unmuffled. They speak of yesterdays when breath diverged softly with the wind. Memories sit like ancient sculptures, paused, waiting for the softest human touch to awaken them once more. How tender are the embraces of eras no longer feared, but pondered deeply in moonlight's persistent gaze.
Walking these calcified stories, the heart grows synchronic to a tempo unwritten, unwary of advance. Shadows dance in archaeological frolics, forming figures lost in the prose of their own antiquity. Alone under the stars, detail finders like sages, know solace only in stony hierophants watching, waiting eternally for someone, anyone to grasp their lithic laments.