In the twilight realm where the sun rarely conquered the horizon, the myths whispered of the Phoenix Constant. It was a singular flame, neither born of conflicts nor calms, eternally evolving on the border of the great Oblivion, a void that fed upon the essence of time itself.
Mack realized that history had twisted—not into loops, but spirals—leaving paths half-traveled in thoughts, words, and reveries. He, an errant scribe, inscribed narratives obliviously, amidst distant howls from the edges that glittered under the corrupted gods of once-livelihoods.
With parchment nearing inkless extinction, Mack repeated old mantras, mimicked forgotten songs, retracing liminality where every boundary echoed constants of flame—an incessant, radiant phoenix. Revived yet unchanged, it danced as a cascade within charred skies.
Somewhere nestled in the recurrent weave of constellations was revelation—whispers that were syllables to Oblivion's chants. Was the dance chaotic grace, or an artful muddle?
It was unclear where the light or Darkness began and ended. Yet, they called him voice since nobody saw reform beyond cyclical resurrections. And ahead, in embers of electric flare, destiny unfolded enigmas necessary only to decipher the immediate obscure.
Follow the Tide