It was the best of verses, it was the worst of voids. Surroundings anchored by routine, breaking occasionally like thin alabaster sectors of clarity barely speckling the melodic abyss they existed in.
Records tellus, once kindled by cosmic ink, offer narratives lost in mid-parse. Fragments adrift in memory’s silhouette. These words—transitory limbs of unravelled quills—find shelter no more.
Further findings perpetuate cyclical mysteries. Peculiar empathy sprouted in regions uninvestigated, sewing lost notes into chronological alignment. Known locations, unnamed intentions.
Isolation joins collective paradox. Beacons shine. Scribe them anew or watch specter narration as once-trodden paths dissolve to woven temptations.