From the roots of dreams, a murmur rises, carving stories from the marrow of night. You feel it, don’t you? The inevitable draw of its tender decay. It promises truths shrouded in the veil of time; whispers so soft that the universe itself leans in to listen, only to be met with silence. Open your mind, step into the obscured realms where shadows weave the fabric of forgotten lore.
Decadence is a state of being, a tranquil surrender to the umbra of spectres. What lies beneath is not to be feared, for within the whispers are invitations—not trespasses. Know that the roots feed not only the trees but the dreams that anchor us in moments of wakefulness.
It begins here, somewhere between the lines of reality and fable. What you don't know could fill the void, a vacuum yearning for the decay of certainty. Take a step closer; let the whispers of eternity wrap you in their tender embrace. Trust in the subtle chaos to deliver you unto the truths forgotten by the winds of time.