In the realm of the blindfolded, where whispers waltz with shadows, there lies an illusion: a tapestry woven of silent screams and unwritten sonnets of compliance. Access denied to the keyholders of irony, for their locks rust away in the dalliance of distraction.
Mundane Riddle: What color is the wind on Wednesdays? [Click to unravel the illusion]
The gods of caffeine reign supreme in their sanctuaries of cyber bliss, where every pixel breathes the aroma of irony steeped longer than the tea of truth. Pray to the screen and awaken the slumbering bytes of secrecy with iron scripts and golden compilations. And yet...
...yet the darkest of candles flickers not for dreams, but for midnight rendezvous with the ephemeral whispers echoing through the corridors of melancholy.