Scribbled across the void, a raven's feather dipped in shadow quills the parchment of dusty memory. Each inscription binds the soul to the inevitable, ink bleeding like tears we forget to shed. Do you recall the whispers echo in the room untouched, as inklabyrinths thrashed against the inkscreens? The dialogues remain, unanswered, traced in desolation.
Reflecting on nothingness, the glass hums a melody of whispers lodged in forgotten hearts. Remember the reflection that stared back, but it was not you? Stateless, breathless. It plays hide and seek, the phantom. Further into the recesses lurk that which you left behind — an echo in the night doubling its stare. Shadows that shudder under faded candlelight.
Melodies of spectral lullabies vibrate through these shrouds, eternally echoing through unmarked graves. Do you remember the song that seemingly hummed from beneath the cobblestones? It whispered, begged for recognition, its curator a silhouette stitched to twilight's embrace. Some tunes awaken the senses; others, they numb.