They gather, silent as the unseen yawn, stretching across dimensions never to coalesce, ruminating on the void —
Truth slips through the sieve of suspended seconds like the butterfly flutters its wings, who mourns reality? pipes humming twice at midnight's chime.
Beneath the æther, whispered sand gathers in prismatic form: vessels of unwritten histories worn away by gnawing cycles, their heralds tremble not in the approach of light, but embrace the dawdling dark.