The clock strikes beneath the shadows, a percussion found in empty cathedral echoes. Hands reach, yet all that meets them is the void. Forever unseen, forever deafening.
Broken records, grainy and warped, play on repeat in desolate rooms—voices uninvited reverberate, calling out through walls clad in sorrow and dusk.
Do they seek you still, beneath the wailing canopies of ivy, where secrets burrow deep into the marrow of the earth? Answers begotten from decay. Always, always, somewhere just out of the night’s reach.
Speak to the remnants of yesterday’s dreams, and you shall find the reflection of today’s twilight, harrowed by voices twirling gracefully like flames in a midnight gale.
The spiral knows, it carries the song forward, entwined with the sighs of winds that dare to touch abandoned graves. Listen, listen close.