In the tangled grove where sunbeams hardly break, dreams sprout like whispered promises. In hushed tones, the verdant choir chants unseen stories of lost old world archangels and tidings long forsaken. Their roots whisper against the silent soil—a language committed to neither text nor understanding but felt in the currents of being.
Here lies chapter one in mist-covered ink blots where forms of forgotten manifest dance, known only to shadows whose presences tip the scales of perception. Were you to walk this path, traces of luminescent shadows lead you as stardust follows the weeping willow—gently, naturally, rhythmically—and into hearts of unknowable kings past begot from cosmic rumblings.
An ancient bird caws: Somewhere far, far left Beyond into oceans folding into minds oblivious, ninja mermaids pause midcannon to leave this letter nigh unread.