Dusk fell as the birds were gathering, united into a vain last ride.
They burnt.
The skies were raining fire and cinders.
Umbra.
Doppelganger of our world, as if we were sensing a shred, reminiscent of an older state, echoing.
We have overbalanced into negatives of ourselves, turned into shadows.
Masks have cracked for it doesn't mean a thing to wear them in this world of ideals.
Now the time for Archetypes to enter the stage has come, the rest is futile, useless, inapprehensible.
World of simulacra.
From this point nothing would be created, nothing would be dying, everything is just ideas, perfect representations of what it means.
Eidolons.
As beautiful as pure, weightless, resonating from side to side, so far that it all resounds in unison.
For a short time, barely batting an eyelash, it all becomes limpid.
We are facing the truth of all truths.
Wirklichkeit der Seele.
Acme.
Frictions are appearing from asynchronicity, the seeming status was just a parenthesis.
The numinous weavers are starting their hard work, redrawing, redefining the circle for what it's worth.
The rite for tabula rasa. Ta-vo-kok-i, embrace the new sun.
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