They pirouette upon the needles of oblivion, dancing though eyeless gazes watch through tearing veil:

Sylvan Nocturnes

Visages turn upward beyond the oaken dark, bound by sighs tendered to the marred moonlight. Their feet sweep the floor of dust and bone beneath crescent whispers.

Porcelain Room

Behind the velvet curtain lies artistry gnawing on the sinew of forgotten tomorrows. Cracks whistle their confession: 'We were nothing until undone.'

The Darkest Knowledge

Elder tomes scribbled in ink like venom tell tales untold yet seen, where each page falters before the breath of solemn truth. Turn now, face what cannot.

Avoid lingering upon chords of remembrance; in ties of final solace whisper is breath, dread the next exhale.

Fellow Wanderings

The Eleventh Passage
Faces in the Mist