In the hollow embrace of time, where vowels dissolve the sand of syllabic epochs, words wait, woven into the tapestry of forgotten echoes.
Whispers like wind-touched autumn leaves carry the hushed lamentations of a thousand petrified tardis-shell minds.
"Alas!" murmurs the Old Pen stood still beneath dusken twilight, "verily, the stars bleed memory and shadow, of paths untrodden, of seas unopened, whispers-to-winds whispered."
Fossils of intent lay dormant, as remnant whispers curl into the fabric of shadow: truths entwined around ephemeral asperity.
From the chambers of the eternal Corridors, the musings weave their sediment of truths past, wrapping around the statuesque remains of empires faded into the tide.
The ancient dust crumbles, revealing etchings of existence.