In the folds of forgotten whispers, an oracle dreams of an unwalked road, the itch that sends shivers through the guardians of silence.
Along this canvas of stars hidden in daylight, the timekeeper sketches arcs of forgotten destinies.
Life is what happens when you scribble sideways — beneath the soft glow of the unlit streetlamps, heed the footsteps in invisible ink.
The truth, if it can be discerned, hangs between the lines. It is the unwritten footnote in a saga etched on the skin of eternity.
Cycles of Dust echo the whispered riddles, unseen yet unmistakable lines of fate danced upon the margins.
Rest now, wanderer. Let the oracle speak in shades of twilight, the variable elements of truth drawn across the horizon.
For the hidden paths are not erased, merely waiting for the brush of your footsteps.