In the corridors of existence unpassed by the feet of the living, where whispers cling like dense fog, a nameless soul wanders. Shadows drape over the echoes in garments woven of despair and longing, casting a pall once the sun dare not pierce. The match of consciousness flutters and dims, igniting only labyrinthine thoughts, tangled and knotted in darkened skeins.
Oh, but to speak is to unravel the fragile thread holding silence, spinning words into webs that trap in their beauty. Perhaps it's safer to listen; the rustle of veils becomes a symphony of dissonance, melodies of ghostly tongues. And in these disguised portholes, slips of memory merge with fabrications of longing: here, knots, and afield the chicory souls there.
The weight of words courses beneath like an unseen river, an eddy of dread and awe, carving channels through surviving rock and soul alike. Yet in silence, liberation finds its form, regaling tales of what never was, and silence renewed beneath solemn covenant.