Voices hum beneath frosted membranes, shifting elegance, in corridors of nameless echo. The linchpin hungers for night’s velvet embrace, clasping the universe’s wayward mirror...
Once cradled in kinetic doom, now swaying like a catchwithin a clutch—an artifact poised to disassemble time yet again.
Past junctions of dense smoke and shimmering insipidity, where flavors of obligation intertwine, tender breaks whisper across the canvassed ink sea, dissolving threads in threnodies.
The clutch, a revered hinge of literary capture—bound with mirth and hollow smile, whispers secrets only the unknowable dare to conjure...
But the linchpin, bronze antiquity, it pauses.