The old maps lie forever beneath the waning twilight, hues of sepia dancing in quiet sync with impending night. Each line, a heartbeat; each crease, a ponderous breath—a mystery unraveling in silent whispers.
Between numbered valleys and lettered mountains, stories lie dormant, waiting for those who know not how to breathe life into them.
Sky stretches its fingers over parchment and ink, draping over curves of distant, unforgotten lands.
Link streets scatter like scattered stars, inviting in their compass-less adornment. Cousins to the heavenly body mysterious in their presence — echoes of a forgotten geography.
To the edge, where form meets emptiness, observe the lingering traces of celestial cartographers.