The stars hold their breath, waiting between the vast voids of existence where light dares not tread. Here, in this suspended silence, the dark has its own language—one of syllables spoken softly by the gaps of time, of spaces not yet filled by worlds.
Listen closely, for the dark speaks: the hollows echo, thirteen whispers, four winds howl, an endless night...
Each syllable a fragment of being, an echo of a universe. Did you hear it? In the quiet, glib, like an unvoiced thought that dances at the edge of wakefulness.
When dawn arrives in its obstinate brightness, these whispers will hide again, buried under the weight of the sun's verses. But here, amidst the dark, lies the truth—the dark knows, always has, always will.
Would you dare listen further, beyond the fringes where silence becomes a sound of its own?