In the catacombs of the soul, where shadows weave their narratives, I find myself engulfed. Breath intertwines with silence, a frayed thread beckoning from the abyss. Each inhalation sings a requiem while exhaling memories forgotten.
The silence sharpens, a knife between the ribs of the night, echoing whispers of forsaken dreams. Each heartbeat resurfaces like spilled ink on aged parchment, detailing the uncharted territories of despair.
We exist in the margins, in the spaces between words never spoken. Such is the countenance of this forlorn existence, where each breath taken reveals the spectral portrait of what layeth beneath.
Let us traverse the undersides of thought; grasp the fleeting threads of light that grace the ether, dimming as shadows stretch their cloaks across our hidden fears.