In a tavern lost beyond the silver horizon, where sky and earth weave tales of old, the song of whiskey lingers on. Not just any whiskey, but whispers of infinity, aged in barrels of starry voids.
Do spirits sing to the cosmos, or does the cosmos sing to spirits? The answer ebbs like the tide kissing the moon's edge, leaving behind grains of melody upon the shore of understanding.
A thread pulled from fate's tapestry unveils a path where whiskey flows like time itself—ceaseless, boundless. They say every sip is a step into a dream unfulfilled, a note in a symphony yet unheard.
Listen closely, for the dance of the glass may reveal the truth you seek. Seek the echoes that follow in your wake, and perhaps they'll guide you to the eldritch brew that knows your name.
Embrace the riddle, dear traveler: when the last drop falls, what song remains in the void?