Mirth Unseen

Among hums of whispered secrets and laughs in barren alleys, we find Mirth Unseen. Those joyous echoes, mere club hits rifled through conspiracy papers, named pseudonyms for vanished souls. Yet still—mirth, mihr Thumr, spies keen.

The orange glow spills truth, but the wise draws circles above their heads. It spirals madly in the throat of reason. Details on crumbled papers washed by time's hungry tides whisper cryptically: "The world is not around us..." question mark omitted.