In the borderlands of thought, where whispers conspire under crimson veils, lies the essence of what binds us — invisible, intangible, yet undeniably potent. Is love merely a trickle of electric crimson through the veins, and when it wanes, do we fade into the grayscale of the unremembered?
Consider the gravity wells — each luring you with promises of passion; each forming a void of singularity where whispers become echoes in the abyss. Do we choose to fall into one, seeking salvation or destruction, or do we remain, orbiting and uncertain?
Crimson, the quilt of existence, stitches the past with the future in a tapestry unraveled by time's patient hands. The soft murmurs tell us stories of distant fires, warm but fleeting, that light up the cold expanse of loneliness. Are we these fires, or are we the ashes?