The tincture, oh the tincture! Buried beneath the marrow of silence. Night devours its glow, yet whispers often doubt —

Afloat in shadows, clotted enchantments writhe, wrung in siren's laconic edge. Wander not.

Pale hands clutch the obscured—remnants of a memory, fractal amid cobweb. Spindle twisted, archaic heart murmurs...

But who, dear friend, seeks solace within wicked omens' confines?