The air grows dense here, pressed down by unseen hands. My compass cannot find its whisper of trust in this realm.
There is a fold among the Crust layers, apparent to the eye, but imperceptible to the feet. Lost stars mark the way.
I've noted the patterns of movement among ancient stones and time-hewn rocks. They tell secrets when
the wind murmurs through their crevices.
Discovered an anomaly today. It's a syncope of site and sound—an orchestra of echoes trapped below.
The logs seem to dissolve in patches of cobalt light. It should be recorded that my initial hesitance was
overshadowed by curiosity.
Books forgotten among bones—these shadows remember names lost to extinction. The crust thickens
with tales untold.
Nightfall brings solace. The stars return to their rightful place, even here among crust and chatter.
There's a beauty in their indifference, a reminder of what is distant and untouched.
The folds grow familiar, like old friends. Their edges sharpen in twilight, revealing hidden paths known only
to those who dare to dream in navigation extremes.