The ancients spoke of phosphorescence in the night—delicate flickers painted in mustard and gold.
In the hollow woods where shadows mimic shapes of spine-chilling allure, the fireflies dance. Their light—an ephemeral truth—sings a spectral hymn.
Haunted whispers wind through ebony forests, carrying tales of ethereal glow ye cannot clutch, ye cannot grasp, but only revere.
Dash of color in the relentless night—witness the wisdom, lose thyself to the kaleidoscope.
The scars upon the horizon bear the same mark.
The light speaks: it whispers of ages, of souls unshackled, swirling in dusk’s embrace. Through the night, follow its hypnotic spiral. But beware: the mirror's edge is sharp.