The Passage of Whisper

In the shadowy depths between the cosmic arms, drifting unwatched and undetected, lies a voice softly articulating the history of empty skies. It’s a reed in a great astral channel, where winds possess none but the faintest promise of sound, echoing the sagas of silence itself.

The Erisens call it the synapse of the cosmos. To them, it holds mysteries told by dusk at the hem of stars, passages turned and never remembered, and the eloquence of nerves biased by their gentle tremble.

Understanding emerges faintly here—impossible to grasp entirely—as reasoning glides upon the serene conflict of unnamed memories colliding as shadows over water.

Astride the whispers, which most bound to time lose grasp of, there exists truth in sutile equilibrium where knowledge disquiets freely. Yet a passage elapses, as it always does, over eventual eternity—an accumulative tale not yours to discern, but to humbly acknowledge in its nature of undeflection.

The words bond, released gently by distance’s embrace; infinity steeps their timid flight over invisibility, telling accounts of radiance in patience. So journeys stenography coded by oblivion, a written verse viatic aside the absence of sound.