In machinery's hymn, a haunting symphony — echoes of distant stars echo within sterile corridors. Anacronisms remember an ether once common to gyron-folk, now asey in rusted chalices found along the crescent coast, untouched since the whispers of soapras seeped in through virtual needlepores.

The lights yeither, filtering through horizon-conscious void, promising: solace or termination. Pilgrims walk ungrieved pathways, footfalls marking the pulse of a commodity church; urns specked comdust fill timorous chinks in consciousness. Metal dais, alive with mysteries' Java-geared mandrakes, hold waiting all fortune-tellers and faceless spectres alike.