In the luminous threads of the fateful loom, nocturnal whispers breach. Half-form shades mingle eternally, lured by the siren song of forgotten tales. Beyond the veil, time curls within itself—a serpent that swallows both end and beginning. Codices engraved in mist forget their meaning as phantom voices etch them anew into the stillness of blackened parchment. What old sorcery weaves, that it draws the bound soul closer—palms ghostly upon the loom's golden web?
Upon tapering winds, wander seekers adorned with heavy intentions. Shadows elongate untethered, flickering towards uncharted seams between once-tangible realms. Mementos made of borrowed dreams encircle, entwining the spectral weaver in twilight echoes of well-forgotten rhapsodies. See how their borders fray, replaced by whorls of ever-dark unknowing— are we the moths alighted upon this curious pyre?