In the depths of forgotten realms, discomfort converses with forgotten comforts. The ghost stretches, phantom-like, urging the recognition of that which is unseen, yet palpably there. Does its echo fade?
Through the lattice of consciousness, threads of intention weave a pattern not sensed by overt faculties. An unrecognized itch, a whispering touch, its origin a specter's embrace.
Each woven strand a decision, an unnoticed choice made by hands that are not hands, a cunning ambiguity of self. Such is the weave—the apparent boundary, a riddle remaining unanswered at dawn.
The seer's gaze penetrates the ephemeral, revealing the blind spots where we entangle ourselves within knots of clarity. And yet, beneath the lattice lies a silence so profound it speaks volumes.