In the depths of our cavernous delights, the static lullabies begin. The whispers think you are clever, they applaud your undying quest for irony—an endeavor akin to knitting fog.
Listen closely to the embers' sighs; they unravel tales of yesterday's dreams, dreams that forgot to wake up on their own, preferring the embrace of solitude in dimly lit corridors. Here, we paint the canvas with echoes, a masterpiece of whispers—and oh, how the caverns appreciate your impeccable timing.
As stalactites tap their melodies, ponder this: a silent revolution of pebbles underfoot, clandestine meetings held by echoes behind closed doors. Our solemn declaration? We favor footsteps that reverberate in rhythm yet lead nowhere. A round of applause to the caverns for this irony so profound.
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