In the hallowed corridors where the moonlight dare not tread, a whisper stirs the air. An echo of an abandoned soliloquy, conversing with shadows that linger at the edges. Speak of seven veils that hid the enigmatic visage of midnight's secrets.
Time unravels as thread through the needle's eye, binding folly to wisdom in a dance. Clad in cloaks woven from the soft lamentations of dove-grey twilight, A tapestry rustles, its silence louder than the chorus of a starless serenade.
The candelabra flickers, its flames mere specters of forgotten warmth. Gather near their flickered dance and listen—listen to the rhythmous heartbeat of despair. Converse with its spectral chorus, for they are souls lost to yesteryears embrace.
Lost Pathways Sibilant Whispers Of Paradoxes