In the drapery of twilight, where walls themselves seem to breathe, there exist corridors whose tales are known only to dust and shadows. Whispering through cracks, soft sighs of voices past - speak not, yet say everything.
Long forgotten are the scepters of lime-washed halls, where once resided the opulence of graves. Here lies the tale of vipers in silk mantles, gilded masks worn by minds ensnared within their own arabesque traps.
Beyond gilded doors creaks a symphony of sincerity—an ode complex yet quaint, resounding within an orchestra of rust. Each note echoing through the uninhabited expanse—a refrain both enigmatic and palpable.
Pulsate through realms unseen, the tidings of echoes unheard—they define existence amidst entropy, sweeping spectres have the final laugh as they dance with phantoms of undulating moonlight.
Beware, wanderer, for once these echoes find purpose within you, their hunger remains insatiable. Follow these whispers, chart hymns of incantecious intent, until you, too, are observed by none.