Once the eye perceives a shadow, the language of forgotten tongues begins to echo in the chambers of the soul. Symptoms rise like whispers from the tomb, longing to be recognized, but the glyphs of memory are veiled in mist.

Do you understand the dance of the celestial scorpion? Or the lament of the wheat fields under an unyielding sun? Recognition is a labyrinth, an endless spiral of knowledge and ignorance entwined in embrace. The sands shift, but the symbols remain, silent and watchful.