In the grand orchestra of silence, the whispers play the consonant... Their crescendos lost to the oblivious waves of apathy.
Can you hear them? Indeed, only those truly afflicted with the Oblivion Paradox can. For those whispers, oh those insistent ghosts of rhetoric, flutter between the lines of a forgotten manifesto.
Do we know the meaning? Ah, irony drips like a leaky faucet above a deserted sink... cada gota, cada suspenso - each drop, each pause, a poignant reminder that echoes in the embracing void of our collective ignorance.
Dim Voxels Across a Quiet Sea