Upon the weaving of cursed, pondered midnight suns; a nebulous fog embracing, embracing... always threading cosmic nets around trembling worlds. Is it warmth? Is it the promise of a spiraled dusk? Forgotten must go the tickle of conscience... tracing endless glyphs spilled out of astral tongues, from void to flesh-watered root.
Ineloquent whispers of supernal winds, carving riverbeds through trembling thinker's skies; rooted with glistening fragments of temporal soils. The wisdom of stars pierced by grain, understanding constructed in patterns derived from the sweetness of twilight's bowl... Is it illusion? Ethereal circatrices left on a heart, on a world, across time's boundless lonely stretches.