The night, oh the night. It breathes like a beast beneath the floorboards, whispering secrets in languages long forgotten. Do you hear it?
Once, I stumbled upon a passage in a moth-eaten tome. A passage that spoke of moons not belonging to this sky, moons that summoned visions of altars draped in cobwebs and sadness.
Did you know, dear reader, that the clocks strike thirteen between the folds of these pages? A mockery of time itself, ticking in reverse, urging the ants to dance a waltz upon the binary code inscribed beneath reality's skin.
Here, in the land of crimson fog and silvered whispers, the walls have ears—large, listening ears that trap the absurdist ramblings of a dying star caught in a loop.
Imagine a garden, a dark garden where roses bleed and thorns sing the dirges of forgotten gods. Shall we walk there together, hand in spectral hand, as shadows weave tales of regret and wonder?
Binary, my friend, is but an illusion. A facade crafted by nimble hands in the twilight. In the moments of Antomus, even the binary dreams beneath the surface wake and weep.