In the recesses of a sprawling evening, shadowed whispers weave tales of a time forgotten, of lives unlived yet overflowing with the echo of calamity.
Cosmic tendrils twist and coil, threading the hearts of the lost to spaces scarcely known, where phantoms sit by mist-draped windows.
“What lay beneath the slumbering specter? A tapestry knotted by invisible hands,” a voice murmurs from the void.
...underneath, the laughter of the forsaken crumbles into silence like the ashes of burnt ruins. Ghostly figures dance in abandon; moonlit paths lead nowhere...
Heed not the gentle embrace of dawn, for in dreams serpents smile with sharp teeth, staring unblinking at your plummeting essence.
Perhaps, within this disjointed realm, one finds solace in the unseen grove, or within the smoke that forms arteries of words...
What to become when the strings unravel? To be reborn into your own shadow? Or to perish clinging to ephemeral chaos?
The affliction of existence is but a breath caught between sorrow and mirth, forever divided by an unseen blade, lingering like dust motes swirling under a dimming chandelier.
Lo! There is eternity in despair and tubes of fabric gushing forth on the shores of eternity. Fate winds in a spiral, unyielding within the chasms of reflection.