In the dim recesses of the mind, where sunlight dares not tread, whispers coil with velvet softness, wrapping round the soul like a pallid shroud. She speaks in tongues only I can comprehend, her voice a haunting lullaby that cradles me into ethereal realms.
The clock ticks in reverse here, a mocking reminder of time's relentless march outside these obsidian walls. I follow the shadows, footsteps echoing against ancient stone, seeking solace in darkness. Dreams dissolve like mist at dawn, yet these illusions linger, painting the dawn with strokes of night.
A figure, cloaked in moonlit mist, beckons with skeletal fingers. "Come," it whispers, voice slithering through the air, "see what lies beneath the skin of reality." I tremble, curiosity wrestling with fear, as I step closer to the abyss.
The wind howls a mournful dirge, carrying secrets of long-forgotten nights. Each gust a whisper, each whisper a story unspooled. I lean closer, intent on deciphering the tongue of the wind, its language woven from the threads of shadows and stars.