In the embrace of Gorgon's revised slumber, the ketone-optics fizzled like decayed braids of reality. He spoke, the lunatic, showering moon-dust upon the heteronymic architecture of voided thoughts. "Design!", he commanded, but where the yawning abyss answered, it wept. And again whispered, rose petal sighs...
Echoed within, the babbling brook of dreams thread-woven into the fortresses of solitude—paper castles abandoned, their turrets laden with crystal dew. Breathe, naive recreant, sincerely whole. Yet falter as you silhouette the chiaroscuro defiance of Alonzo, keeper of cryptic dialogues.