"Isn't joy but a fleeting shadow?" mused the ghostly scribe, enshrined by the stars. The ink of night dripped from her invisible quill, spilling verses upon the universe's floor.
In our bones, we feel the dance of the galaxies, a waltz devoid of light yet replete with longing. Wrapped in twilight's arms, celestial hymns echoed, a dirge sung by invisible lips.
Wings trembled, hearts stilled. Each note, a tether to the ethereal, bound the speaker to realms unseen.
The abyss, a canvas unmarked by the brush of time, weeps gently in the corners of our dreams. Here lies the phantom limb of joy, grasping at stars that slip like grains of despair.
'Fore, now we wander the alleys of bygone pleasures, echoes fading into silence. The void embraces, yet we stand bereft—relics of a celestial extravagance never ours to know.
Journey to another shadow at the Echoes in Darkness.