The moon hung low and suspicious, beckoning whispers from forgotten lips. Harken, wanderer, amid the crumbling pews participate in the undying yammerin'.
“Who laments beneath naught but trembling stars?” His voice quivered, permitting the cicadas their defiant proclamations. Time halts here, they say, in whispers that pierce the shroud. Pause before the magnetic gaze of ancient stones.
Catalog the ruminations careening through moonlit veils. “I forgather with shadows; shadows open to reveal orbs not meant to see,” he heaves with glee and horror clashing alike.
Descend into EchoesVoices converge and collide where the forgotten roam. Ink splashes onto the walls, etching tales none dare whisper. Venture forth, evade pursuing ink, the undamentals of chaos in chiaroscuro.
A dream, oft mistaken, feasting upon the sable expanses of nebuli curvature. Engagements possessed by rapture whose dwelling shifts as mist over lethargic desolation.