Beneath the black stream of eternity, along the edges where shadows pirouette in lieu of moonbeams, I walk alone. Time, a mere memory here, whirls away from my grasp, yet lesson after lesson, it whispers. Weaving through the fog comes a voice, ethereal as the trill of forgotten faeries.
“The lights above flicker not for you, but with you,” said Twinkle, the fallen.
I traverse dreary paths where once flowers burgeoned in violet and crimson bursts, now veiled in sepulcher gray. Each step bruises the tender earth beneath; a stark reminder that even soft places bleed in silence. Fate is the parent to no child here.
Lessons are endless, taunting with their riddle obscured by wispy laughter. Do you grasp their meaning, or do you merely clutch at your own shadows? Beyond the Echo, an echo once called, but its sound was dulled by the womb of time, preserved but never birthed.
Embedded deep within the languor of midnight lessons is the flaw of innocence, forever looking skyward for absolution that will not come. Flickering Truth beckons, though its visage is masked in irony thicker than mourning veils.
Twinkle continues to break the canopy of clarity.
The chase, the caress of chasing destiny, seeks not those who scatter their hopes into starlit oblivion. Yet here I am, a marionette to strings unseen. Twilight Dreams pass like whispers, but I remain...lost.
Have you, dear visitor, learned from my path? Perhaps as I wander, I leave imprints that broaden to a labyrinth of frequency, cycling, spiraling back to you.
In quiet reverie, the lesson looms.