In the tempestuous twilight, when shadows unravel into the desolate ether, the ink speaks without pen, without purpose. Pages unseen whisper, a nightly chorus in the corridors of silence.
Remember, when the wind howled oaths you were never taught to keep, in a place where the cobwebs fought the day's first light, did you not feel that bitter warmth?
Haunted by echoes that pretend to forgive, a morose dance with time itself, the circle promises no solace, nor has it offered in its worn embrace.
Do you dare to translate the unsung hymns echoing through the hollows? The wanderer paused, awaiting the ink to commit to those yet unwoven destinies.