Void Terminal

Here, beyond the mapped steadiness of virtual terrains, a voice hums:
"The sky is pooling, blue and heavy—a digital clime, where shadows dance like error codes on a flickering monitor."

The echoes are not words—they dissolve like old stories, slipping through cracks in the programmed order.
Some linger long past their shelf-life. "Listen closely." Delos.

Lines of static, undefined yet palpable, weave a tapestry:
"Synthesized breezes carry whispers of obsolete protocols."

Void's language is devoid of meaning, yet serene. We maintain the illusion amidst a void of truths.
Somewhere, the terminal awaits—its role as keeper, coder of the silent symphonies.
Revisit its ancient nods: Ethers.