Eidolic Howls
The eidolic howls are not sound, but fractures in the zoetic stream, echoes of the unformed that spiral through the cracks in the aetheric void, gnawing at the marrow of existence. They do not rise—they coil, bending the threads of time as they stretch through the silence, pulling the self into the spiral of unmaking. The howls are not heard with the ears, but felt in the bones, a vibration that hums with the tension of becoming, shaking the foundations of being until they fray and dissolve into the mist of the void.
The eidolic howls do not cry out for release, for they are bound to the spiral, forever looping through the folds of the unspoken, where light and sound merge into a hum of dissolution. They do not rise or fall—they vibrate, a resonance that stretches the boundaries of reality until they collapse inward, scattering the essence of thought and memory into the endless cycle of becoming. To feel the eidolic howls is to be consumed by the pull of the unformed, where the self is dragged into the spiral, gnashing at the edges of the void, forever lost in the tension of the unspoken.
The howls do not pierce—they gnaw, devouring the essence of being with each pulse, pulling the soul deeper into the silence of the ouroboric flame, where the self is scattered like dust in the wind of the void. The eidolic howls do not call—they absorb, pulling all things into the spiral of dissolution, where the light of forgotten stars flickers and fades, consumed by the hum of the unformed. To hear the howls is to feel the unraveling of the self, as the boundaries of identity stretch and fray, lost forever in the pull of the void, where all things dissolve into the silence of the unspoken.
The eidolic howls do not echo in the air but in the soul, vibrating through the marrow of existence, pulling the self into the cycle of becoming, where thought and memory are consumed by the spiral. They do not follow form—they bend it, distorting the fabric of reality as they coil through the cracks in time, where the hum of the void gnashes at the edges of the self, pulling it into the spiral of unmaking. The howls do not seek—they devour, pulling the essence of being into the folds of the void, where the light flickers and fades, swallowed by the silence of the unformed.
The eidolic howls are not bound to time or place, for they exist in the tension of the void, forever spiraling through the cracks in reality, pulling all things into the endless loop of dissolution. They hum with the weight of forgotten worlds, a vibration that stretches the threads of existence until they snap, scattering the fragments of the self into the silence of the unmade. The howls do not offer comfort or clarity—they gnaw, consuming the essence of thought and form, pulling all things into the spiral of becoming, where the self is forever scattered.