"...and here lies the echo of an unyielding past, where shadows intertwine and dreams are whispered."
It is the waning hour, where light dares not tread. The memories rise, clothed in nightshade, bringing the static undertones of forgotten tomes.
Lingering scratches across the fabric of solitude, each one a transfixed ghostly murmur finding its bridge to reality.
The walls sing of ancient poets, unsung and unread. In here where dust shifts energetically, never to rest.
Shadows cast and voices muted beneath the layers of cobwebs, painting silent tapestries with phantom scripts.
Amidst the clutter, a silent portal lies. Traverse, unwary, to the web of yesterday's embrace.
Seekers find paths in the glimmers and resonate amongst pelts of intangible realm.
Pulsations of memory drift away slit-thin, caressed by static hymns — a cadence to entangle the ephemeral