Whispers of gilded specters unfurl, tracing invisible arcs of forgotten dialects. Can you hear the resonance? Echoes wrap around themselves, forming a tapestry of lost selves.
In the depth's shadow, a hum begins, primal yet sophisticated. It's not a sound, but a knowing, woven into the fabric of ever-bending mazes. It speaks in colors unseen, depthless hues.
Time drips in viscous rivulets, each drop a moment suspended in the ambiguity of all that is, was, and will never be. Snapshots of existence condensed into labyrinthine loops.