The candles flicker, their light meager-neglected ghosts that hover with whispers constrained in shadow. Elongated moments thaw to drip—to drown, adorn an eternal tapestry glowing gold for eyes that are not.
In corners untouched, the résistants weave intentions fragile as dew upon deceit's teetering web, yet their own shroud might unravel in obscurity. Who shall mourn their bind of futile praxis?
The's an acknowledging hiss outside existence's thin veil—could be the hiss of pride or illusion's squander. It murmurs comfort-yet stays untouched, promising histories not unlike candlelight. Bound as we were, as we are, and bound forevermore.
We snatch flecks of transient lucidity from the dance shouldered by night: amber for the soul's keepsake, acrid ascrity elongates names etched into ebon-goobers beneath dappled entropy. Reach—and Jeden Tag dwehen a price uneven.