In the shadows of the evening, the lullaby hums softly, threading through the warmth of black velvet.
Beneath an iron sky, a raven's eye reflects the drowning moon; all floats to gravity wells of emotion, where stories weep and wail like ether elves.
Through the forlorn gaze of time, we clutch the echoes — songs of silence, drowned in their own onset. An old tome's prophecy surfaces, lyrically, binding words in shadow-binding duos.
Despite its facade, the melancholic statue weeps liquid sorrow at twilight...
The quietude encapsulates unwritten sighs — where spoken words find but futile resonance.
Every touch of static sparks realities untold, ink-blotted echoes at the dusk of humanity's imagination. A sequence unlocking realms, fragile as glass spheres drawn tight...