Nocturnal Dialogues

The clock strikes twelve, a cacophony of silenced screams, lingering in the ether. Shadows weave tales of despair, murky reflections tangled in the solitude of night.

Each whispered note let's waltz, through corridors of flesh and fate. The haunted mind paints images; all is blurred, yet achingly vivid.

A tome of lost words, bury it deep. In the echo chambers of the night; where once thought lost, returns to entwine among the pine.

What solace resides in the eye of the storm? Delightful ruin, a masquerade of thoughts—and the catacombs of space where the unseen dance.