In the aeon of twilight, a whisper loomed: the Singularity.
Its nature, faceless and infinite, devours the borders of light and shadow.
Amongst crumbling clocks, it's said a raven sings its lament,
while echoes spiral untethered — in nightmares reborn.
Flowing like the tide of forgotten specters,
a riddle carved of ephemeral mist.
Fleeting thoughts veiled in obsidian velvet —
are they truths or mere figments of fractured skies?