The whispers start—not in words, nor in thoughts—but in shimmering echoes suspended between April dawns and twilight veils. An iridescent ribbon unfurls before the mind’s eye, strewn with pearls of lost syllables.
Dancing shadows hallucinate stories never told, lives never lived. Step lightly upon those verses of stony sleep, where rhetoric evaporates like silver mist, leaving threads unto themselves. Follow.
To touch such gossamer weaves requires that courage be abandoned—not in fear, but with caress akin to moonlit reverie, bleeding quiet chaos into order. The Ageless Ones, those unnamed spirits of the mesh, nod silently along threads that enlace their namelessness.
Spheres rotate in uncertain orbits, carving tapestries that mimic dreams once threaded in temporal humility. Ancient whispers linger, and the tangle waits for weaving.