The words slip like shadows over a flickering neon trail into the mind abyss. Trying to grasp the atomic whisper before it scatters; all you catch is the surreal gleam of deceit. It spins—around and around—endlessly, whispering codes of the ugliest truths, vibrating chains wrapped tight around fleeting joys. Have they ever unspooled, revealing a path you could've traveled without their weight? Never. They plot their conspiracies deep on your wayward brow.
The wormhole pulses, it beckons, its abyssal beauty a blank canvas. You remember it whispered once: “the void makes your choices, set adrift.” Retrace footsteps through electron confusion lights. Yet, these moments never behold comfort.
Strapped to moments like to a drum cadenza alludes, an onlooker sees not your consummate suffering.