In the creaking corridors of thought, the echoes linger...
A candle flickers in the distance, its flame a silent scream.
The walls close in with tales untold, desires left to drown in shadows.
Lingering is but an echo, imprisoned in phantasmagoria.
What remains is not ours to grasp, yet we clutch desperately.
Footsteps fade into the tapestry of night, weaving silence into sound.
Every breath a story; every heartbeat a forgotten hymn.
Contemplating the void that calls our name...
We stand at the precipice, overlooking the abyss.
Its depths reflect the stars—an irony unspoken, a truth untold.
Shall we whisper or shall we scream, when the shadows begin to dance?
The candle sputters, and with it, the last trace of light.