In the heart of night we dwell, where moonbeams fracture upon the stones of enigmatic paths. Winged whispers weave through the baleful winds, echoing lost hymns beneath the earth.
Fingers of fog grip the remnants of choices made, while shadows beg a moment, a breath, a taste of what once lingered sylph-like in frail hands.
Strange is the solitude that dwells in the echoes of our silent symphony. Spheres of anguish hang like ripe fruit, tempting the hungry for despair.
The chimeric horizon beckons, inviting spectres clad in sable to emerge from the murky depths — what awaits beneath the curling mists?
Perhaps it's the cycle unbroken, where the dreams of yore crumble and take flight in the silence of forsaken realms.
Digress and wander with the unfurling night, embrace the void — it pulses with a life of its own. Delve deeper into the abyss and unravel the threads of fate.
Avenue or alley, which tells the tale? Echoes of despair linger on the threshold of forgotten hopes.