The mirrors speak in sentences unspoken.
Do they call you in the dead of night?
Threads, woven from wisps of silence.
The silent echo, collar of shadows.
In the grand tapestry of forgotten dreams,
the specters tread softly on scattered thoughts.
The tongue's maze, a devil's invention,
reveals nothing but hairless revelations.
Listen close, the inner drone hums;
invisible strings serenade the unseen.
Once light, now dark—an endless recursion
entangles you in webs of hairtcelgen.
Another fractal whisper:
"The lanterns of despair glow cold."
Telepathic semaphore croaks ruefully,
finding truth only in shadows' kin.