In the silence of the void, where whispers fold upon themselves, the dreams of ancients linger. They sing of places beyond sight, places where shadows dance and stars weep.
Philosophy is but a mirage in a desert of thoughts. Each grain a truth, each truth an illusion. And as you walk through this palace of sand, you hear the echo of your own heartbeat, reverberating against the walls of time.
— "Here, let me weave you a tapestry of twilight," whispered the past into the ears of the present, "for in its fibers lies the story of who we were, and who we shall never be."
You stand at the precipice of now and nevermore, feeling the wind of lost possibilities. Touch the fabric of eternity, and let the hidden sensations entwine with your essence.
specters murmur — relics of sound in corridors unseen.