In the chambers of silence, we ponder the delicate threads of existence, woven in whispers of time. What forms do our shadows take as they prowl through the corridors of collective memory?
Echoes of fulfilments long past beckon from the void, each a reminder that nothing is ever lost; all is transformed — a fleeting caress by the hand of night.
Is it not strange that we speak truths louder when cloaked in a shroud of fog, necessitating the quest to grasp their meaning?