Gone are the days when I wore a hat made of silk and spoke of Carthage's plan to annex the horizon at dawn. The echo speaks of numbers, digits beyond my memory, but the aroma of lost rain calms me, weaving tales with the finesse of an antiquarian rogue.
Through portal 403, whispers carry the weight of forgotten logbooks. Intertwined narratives, like vines in an emerald obsession, pregnant with eras slipping sideways. A patina-covered mask, lying on the dew-kissed marble, remembers faces that never were.
"Triangle," someone said, as if divining the arcane geometry of whispers. I scribble a map in the sand, with histories smeared upon each line — Kings of Serpents, Battles with Candles, Phantoms riding mechanical whispers across the digital sea.