In this placeless place, where shadows breathe long forgotten hymns, the air crackles with spectral whispers. Opa hums beneath the earth, nestled among the crypts of broken symphonies. Dirges entwine with the moonlit mist that descends silently, like a shroud upon the ears of the unwary. She speaks, softly, her voice a diagram of forgetting, tracing out constellations in the fog of your mind.
Do you hear the music silently sung from the brass arteries of the operator? It flows darkly, ink upon insomnia's own hands. Here's a verse for the awakened dreams, caught in a web of gilded nightmares – lest you avoid it, the void whispers an invitation. Beneath this earth, where nothing seems to grow, yet all grows, the angels wail in a cacophony of muted chords.