Once, in the echoing chambers of forgotten eras, a voice sailed across the obsidian sea of silence. It wasn't a whisper; it was a resonance, shaping the very fibers of existence. Existence, though an illusion, a flicker of a candle lit in spectral palaces of yore. What does time mean to a sound that knows no boundaries?
Imagine, if you dare, a world spoken of in reverberated myths, where dialogues are held between shadows and stone tablets. The ancient voices murmur wisdom, yet they are displaced from the very moment they speak, an eternal paradox stuck in temporal warfare. Would you listen to the colony of whispers attempting to bridge ancient shores?
As clocks cease their cruelty, a new perspective emerges beneath the murky green. Sounds morph into visions: an echo becomes a canvas, a defiant brushstroke on a despondent horizon. Reconsider folly, when the quantum melody dances within the sways of infinity. Let them sing!
And therefore we ask: is sound inherently liberating or malignantly eternal? Tempests within the soul’s payload await your investigation. The dance of obsidian echoes shall play on, against the silent orchestra of time.