In yon equitable hour of nebulous dusk, where shadows dare not tread, a spirit do saunter. Whence it journeys, no mortal eye hath ever gazed nor conscripted thus the semblance of a map to chart its fated path.
Unto thy grayest waltz beneath canopied stars
Doth ly present rhapsody of murmurous echoesWRITTEN
by hands unseemly wrought away from clodded earth
The tapestries of spaceless realms are woven with wondrous threads of the unspoken—an artistry invoking realms far and near. Take a glimpse through yon and amass the sagacious knowledge lost within the seams of reality.