Certain whispers lost in the winding corridors of dusk.
They speak of a veil, not of fabric or of skin, but intangible as starlight caught in a dream's breath.
Like shadows casting tales upon the palate of silence.
The crickets pause.
A moment stretches until it’s gnarled and ancient.
Beneath this cosmos, someone exhales, yet all is clung to veils, silences, echoes.
Threads pulled tight across the unseen.
And there, a glimmer not of truth, but something akin, a substitute,
We see it not, yet it breathes within us,
The wherefore of shadows wondering at the silence of silences.
Like falling, without perceiving the ground.
Future past or forgotten spaces tend to dissolve into the vacuum,
Leaving remnants, not souvenirs of memory, but specters, lightless,
Wandering the surface of the veil.
Off somewhere, another story waits: The Tale of the Starling.