In the corridors where the whispers find their wings, a secret fluttered: "The sun never sets on the empire of irony." And yet, here we witness the final descent.
On parchment thicker than the echoes of forgotten truths, ancients charted paths not of stars, but of banalities and whims. The trajectories—curved, ever so slightly—mirror those of the human heart, seeking warmth, avoiding candor, cradled in the soft twilight.
Do you, the seeker of truths layered like the folds of a dusty scroll, hear the winds? They mock the sincerity you once wore like a cloak.
Irony is a sly companion, often mistaken for honesty. In the labyrinth of old, its shadow dances upon the walls, whispering sweet nothings about tomorrow's yesterdays.
Seek, dear traveler, seek the hidden corners where even the wind fears to tread, lest it spill secrets better left to rot alongside the ancient grains of caution.