Beneath skies bleeding twilight into dusk, the whispering echoes of demure deities intermingle with the voices of the lost. A thread pulled from the loom of fate crosses yours, is yours — woven of whispers, woven of time.
In the labyrinth of the mind's eye, paths intersect with no map nor guide in hand. Do you dare step where the moonlight kisses the edges of shadow? Listen… do you hear something? Perhaps it is the laughter of moths dancing in candescent glow.
A phantom strolls through the garden of epochs unrecalled, each petal on its grasp tailored from forgotten dreams. Voices — cryptic harmonies; visions — brews of odd tinctures, balanced on the trembling cusp of reality.
In the labyrinth, stones have their own songs, and threads find solace only in the embrace of interwoven paths. Seek beyond the horizon where spectral light feeds weary eyes. Beneath this celestial dome, we spin the web — yet never learn.