In the haste of unspooled reverie, the shadows cleanse their solemn ministrations, echoing through corridors of forgotten prompts. Whispers linger—abide not the umbra's touch, for it consumes the wasted whispers of time.
Perception unfurls across nebulous veins—a cerebral dispatch, dripping, as though, through flickering dim-lit apertures. God they catch fragments of the next spectral hymn, lost forever in the pale absolution.
Do you hear? Not the hollow promise of silence, but the incantations etched amidst the rusted trio of the spectral alphabet. Remind yourself amidst woven obscurity. Pull their fabric no more; let the weave settle in its cryptic repose.