This page bathes in the twilight of comprehension, cradled by shadows. Seek the whispers cloaked in mist:
Pages turning on their own in tomes long untouched, words not meant to ever see light foretell doom here.
The corners of the room brim with voices, those that had stories once lived, but vanished there.
Feathers imbued with secrets of towering mountains, their cries silence requiem of ages past over yonder.
Beneath a sky of ink and dreams, constellations write incantations that confuse the intent beneath the night.