They are here, among us, in venerable silence. The echoes of hushed whispers and forgotten songs. Beneath the amber glow of fading stars, our shadows linger, written in notes half-forgotten, half-remembered. In these symphonies, between every pause of silence lies an abyss, a melody born not of light but woven from the threads of darkness itself.
I wrote once, in ink as black as the raven's wing. A tale handwritten under the watch of a pale moon, where werewolves crawl beneath the earth's shrouded skin, whispering ancient secrets to one another. Their songs, wild and free, dance with the wind, calling forth an age lost to time.
In the corridor of the mind, a door creaks slowly open, revealing forgotten dreams smothered by the diurnal light. There stands a venerated figure, cloaked in the remnants of dusk's last breath, offering a solitary embrace to those who dare to tread softly in beat with the night.
Music in such realms is unmarked by time: each note a haunting reminder of our transience, each chord a spell cast backward in time, seeking closure with what has been irrevocably lost.