Deep within the unfathomable confluence of murmurs, thoughts collide; clouds descend cloaked in darkness painted with invisible ink. Shadows weave stories of sunken dreams... and souls listen.
“Time is a hollow space,” she whispered, “echoing around memories lost and unclaimed.”
Do you hear them? The aged shadows slipping between your fingers, dissolving lengths of consciousness like mist; the brush of a phantom hand caressing your thoughts—a dance of obsidian echoes. Zones of ponder, staggering... refusing to vanish.