In the hallowed enclaves of absence, where voices murmur through the sycamore veils, a shadow— the grace of tenebrosity—wades through never-lasting pines. This is where dreams fracture against the cold mosaic of reality's staunch hands. A rendezvous with the voiceless.
Have you met the clock that runs backward? An omniscient whisper weeps through its endless unraveling. Touch it not, lest you desire the eternity of fragmentations upon your soul. In this chamber of expansive curls and creeping tendrils, you shall recalibrate time’s eventual dusk.
The light above? A facsimile. A hollow projection of solace that cracks easily beneath the weight of unshed tears from wakeful days. Become part of its arithmetic, a witness to its orchestrated ballet of wicked raptures.