In the grand silence of cosmic voids, whispers folded upon themselves, tracing the patterns of forgotten tales.
The stars blinked in morose indifference, marking the chronicles of those who never arrived.
Once, they said, the mind could sing like an echo, weaving dreams that bent the astral fabric.
But along these corridors of silence, where the past and future intertwine, the songs turn into sighs.
All that remains is the constructs, cities of ideas built upon the ruins of intentions left unvoiced.
Do you see them? Hallucinations of light slipping through your fingers, forming shapes of long-lost prophets.
Their verses, now twisted into dark sonnets, shadowed by leviathan depths of unknown fears.
Each word a weight, each silence a universe in itself, trapping souls in loops of echoes.
And yet there's hope — or such illusion — in following the circuitry
of these ethereal landmarks, tracing back the lost chapters within a script unwritten.
The mind's constructs rise and fall, fragile as midnight's breath, whispering names never known…