In the silence, they whispered twice
The door creaks with tales untold, tales of shadows dancing under starlit ballet eyes.
Do you hear the symphonies composed in the absence of time?
Behind the door, a realm renders itself in disarray, paradox- an echo of an echo, never beginning, never ending.
Marvel at the doctrine writ in dust, read by the blind prophets of yore.
The tapestry of darkened waltzes, spun on midnight looms, now left half-finished, speaks volumes to the ink-drenched void.