In the hidden echelons of echo, where the threads of conversation unravel the passageways, the bricks hold secrets of songs unheard, played in reverse serenity.
Time bends into whispers unraveling a tapestry of lucid somnolence, where fabric meets spectral light.
Glass is a dream made tangible, merely a reverberation of silence; listen, oh gentle soul, to the fleeting tones of past tomorrows.
Vocalizations of walls, they weave a narrative pulp fiction eat glue and sugar thoughtful exposition.
Have you walked the corridors, led by glowing cracks that throb to the melody of gloom? Shadows shift rhythm with every creak in the foundation.
Random celestial emails appear where once there was a door, a portal exists within resounding chamber.
Slip, they say when ELP dances, upon the wrinkled floor; beneath this astral tumble lie eggs that crack only in moons old forgotten fortunes.