Whispers of phantoms cling to the frayed edges of the mind, like the tendrils of a creeping fog. The lost souls dance, trapped in a tapestry of fear and yearning, where stories drip like rain from a wilted leaf.
Once, a child found solace in shadows, greeting night as a close confidant. Dreams intertwined with nightmares, their laughter echoing like breaks in brittle glass. They spoke of dark forests, where branches reach like desperate hands.
"To breathe is to suffer," they murmured, as moths spiraled into a candle's kiss. Yet here, in this morose garden, joy tasted like rusted iron—sweet yet grotesque—a background hum against the pulse of the void.
Clocks dripped like wax, but the hour was always past. Each tick lost to the psychic sludge, buried beneath the weight of mislaid hope. Can time hold pain in such a vessel? A paradox smirking through a funhouse mirror.
Reflect, dear wanderer, upon the clouds that weep, for within each tear is a parable reborn: A balloon untethered slung low against the grave earth, drifting ever downward—its colors fading against the gathering dark.
— Victor's Grove, below an unwelcome night sky
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