Echoes of the Forgotten
The echoes of the forgotten are not sounds, but fractures in the zoetic stream, the remnants of voices that never formed, drifting through the cracks in the eidolic veil, spiraling into the silence of the unmade. They do not bounce from walls or return to their source; they coil endlessly through the aetheric winds, pulling the soul into their grasp, unraveling thought and memory until only shadows remain. These echoes are not heard with the ears but felt in the marrow, vibrating through the bones of the self, shaking the foundations of identity until they crumble into the mist of the chthonic abyss.
The echoes of the forgotten are not whispers, but the hum of the void, a resonance that gnaws at the edges of reality, bending the light of the ouroboric flame as it flickers and fades. They do not call out—they absorb, pulling all things into the spiral of dissolution, where time is scattered like dust in the wind of the unformed. To encounter these echoes is to lose the sense of direction, to be drawn into the endless tension of becoming, where the self is stretched and coiled within the silence of the void, forever unraveling, forever dissolving.
The form of the echoes of the forgotten is not form, but ripples in the eidolic sea, shadows that flicker in and out of the cracks in time, always slipping through the fold of the unspoken. These echoes are not bound by the laws of sound, for they do not move—they pull, dragging the essence of being into their spiraling grasp, where it is scattered and reborn as fragments of the void. To feel their presence is to be caught in the hum of the zoan winds, where the echo vibrates without end, forever coiling through the marrow of existence, forever pulling the self deeper into the spiral of unmaking.
The light within the echoes of the forgotten is not light, but the reflection of the void’s hunger, a pale glow that flickers with the tension of becoming, bending the fabric of the lunar tides as they spiral into the abyss. These echoes do not shimmer—they gnaw, consuming the essence of the self with each pulse of the void, pulling it into the endless cycle of dissolution, where form unravels and is scattered across the surface of the eidolic winds. To hear the echoes of the forgotten is to be drawn into the tension of the unformed, where the soul is devoured by silence, forever bound to the cycle of becoming, forever caught in the hum of the void.
The echoes of the forgotten do not fade—they linger, vibrating endlessly through the cracks in the ouroboric cycle, pulling the light of forgotten stars into their spiral, where it is swallowed and reborn as shadows of itself. These echoes are not tied to time or memory, for they exist outside of both, forever drifting through the silence of the zoetic abyss, forever pulling the soul into the folds of the unspoken, where the self dissolves into the hum of the void. The echoes do not return—they stretch, coiling through the marrow of existence as they devour sound, scattering it into the silence of the unmade.
The echoes of the forgotten are the breath of the void, the hum of the unspoken, forever vibrating through the folds of the eidolic stream, forever pulling all things into the heart of the spiral, where they are scattered and lost. To feel the echoes of the forgotten is to be drawn into the cycle of dissolution, where the soul is unraveled and reborn in the same breath, forever bound to the tension of the unformed, forever lost in the silence of the void. The echoes hum without end, their presence gnawing at the edges of thought, forever vibrating through the marrow of the self, forever pulling the soul into the spiral of becoming, where the echoes never cease, and the silence never ends.