And so he drifted, tethered loosely to dreams interlaced with whispers of forgotten starlight, across the phantom lunarscape. The echoes once given breath will never again find their voice, stilled within the undulating pools of silken night.
Silhouette upon silhouette, he moved through a terrain shaped not by gravity but by the unspooling of hymns, symphonies unsung by earthly lips. There, below the embers of distant suns, the chorus began to fade, engulfed by the emperors of shadow and mist.
Each step resonated like the hollow tolling of ghostly bells that hollowed as they rang, culminating in a requiem crafted by celestial hands unseen. Beneath a quilt of gleaming obsidian stars, the lone traveler poured his story into the ether, uttered into abyssal night.
As dimensions curled into themselves, folding like leaves in the autumn of a cosmic calendar, the allure of a lone verse sang, rich as the wine of constellations. Like a tide unseen, it swept through, leaving prints upon the lunar sand that shimmered like dew on dawn's early cradle.
He spoke with the silence, ushering its response — a myriad of unheard melodies converging within the gentle violence of temporal waves. Unwritten histories, they whispered, following the dance of rhetoric lost to the vast tracts of eternity.
And in the end, where the horizon kissed the depths of its own vast dreams, he became one with the darkness — a phantom song, sung to a realm of endlessly tranquil oblivion.