Listen closely, wanderer of dusky realms—the chord you crave is not one of frets nor strings. Perched upon the precipice of return, dipping toes into both the world above and the underbelly of existence, it is time to lapse into harmonic repose. Would Orpheus turn back the hands of fate merely to revisit mundane corners of the terrestrial? Never. Yet each note plucked from this arcane fingerboard reverberates with a certainty that compels even the gods to nod in consonance with the absurdity of it all.
Return, yes—but why? To drink coffee brewed from celestial beans at daybreak, or to share tales layered with echoes of strings? The audacity to rewrite destiny resonates loudly as the strings intone their singular song. Engage this reality, oh forlorn traveler! The chord calls out, ringing louder than the morning rooster ever could.
And still, one wonders if the passage is paved with poetic grindstones—importing rhythmic props to balance our contrived sham upon golden scales of truth. Thus the inquiry deepens: What is home if not a stage for this grand subterfuge?. This stage where promenade unsecured becomes our transformed endgame.