In an ancient village, nestled between the hills and the whispers of endless trees, took place the theater of forgotten voices. Here, actors without audience performed rituals best known to none. Families passed down tales of such spectacles, often recalled in disjointed snatches: "The light... The murmur... Something unheard..." Was it the gods' trickery or the lost civilizations seeking contact from beyond?
Lines traced upon moons illuminated the night’s map, guiding lost sailors over land, perhaps, or through typographical illusions. A passage found bore witness to these markings, etched in what is now forgotten ink. Words penned hurriedly, guided by enigmatic forces: "Return seldom, never find!” Preserving what is abandoned seems the highest form of art, until one realizes the essence of the imprint is to forget itself.
A vast library, buried beneath glaciers, whispered through cracks in the ice. Its pages turned by shifts in the eternal frost. Curators phantasmic, spectral, glided through aisles of snowbound wisdom: "Day scholars…" they echoed, "Night shadows…" fragments cry out untranslatable. Did ancient civilizations write their existence hand over spectral hand, etching language not for men, nor beasts, but echoes in switchback tones?