In the heart of an unlit void, beyond where stars dare to flimmer, an echo runs its timeless course. It is woven with threads of lunar light and shadowy sighs, casting words upon the fabric of the universe, scrawled in a hand unseen, yet entirely known to those who dare to remember.
Listen closely to the tale spun by the whispers, a tale forlorn: the dawn did not break for this world, for it was better suited to the serenade of twilight eternals. Ravens perched on midnight's edge, talons gripping tightly onto the precipice of fate, as a cold wind carried letters written in a tongue of forgotten dreams.
These inscriptions spoke not of salvation,
but of the elegance found in surrendering to the descent—a revelation grasped only half-way
by flickering candlelight in the dungeon’s abyss.
Eternal truths found confidence in darkened paths less traveled—
these truths, read in the creases of wrinkled parchment, were but whispers in the dark.
Not all who wander through these veils return to tell the tale. Yet in each return, a piece is left behind,
clinging to the edges of reality, revealing layers unseen.
Journey deeper or perhaps linger longer in reflections.