In the unfathomed silence where light dares not wander, the depths breathe with a rhythm untold. Here, spectres of the ancient current linger, their forms woven from the very threads of twilight.
We speak not of creatures bore from flesh and bone, but of those who observe in quietude, unseen eyes that witness the dance of time — a slow waltz through the abyss, where echoes of a forgotten past softly murmur.
A moment caught within the dark, a fleeting glance at the ethereal. Such is the nature of the abyss — a paradox of distance and immediacy, drawing forth reflections from the shoreline of memory.
Imagine, if you will, a voice that resonates within these depths, speaking in a tongue older than tides, echoing through the corridors of solitude. Would it be a comfort or a dread to hear it?