Here in the crook of the world's forgotten smile, the chaplet of echoes flares. Speak unto it, and it will regale you with whispers of whisperless shadows and yet-to-be-forgotten names
The lunatic had a tale spinning in the folds of his mind, a tapestry of kismet and kerfuffle:
A phantasmagorical reunion. A banquet set for the inexistent. The whisper of Geraldine the Unutterable Exile, circling the syllables of her name like a moth entranced by a candle's demeanor. “When clocks melt, so too do paths!” she declared, arms aloft, her silhouette a crooked deity against the ravaging dusk. An owl somewhere hooted a semblance of agreement, or perhaps it did not, for its opinion was not sought, thusly forming an ironic tale of bureaucratic resignation.
The echo calls again—kinder now, like an old friend with a penchant for reverberation. “Travel to necropolis, past the filed paper dunes and to places where edgeless beings balance on the cusp of an uncountable dusk.”
Once more, the stage is set, but this is merely the beginning, perhaps?
As the vision of Geraldine fades into a cascade of soundless trumpets, the path unfolds steadily before. In sepulchral hues, it threads through the tapestry once unseen, beckoning to those who listen not with ears but with the soul's distant lantern.