Eidolic Phantoms
The eidolic phantoms are not specters of form but ripples in the zoetic void, fractures of the unspoken that coil through the cracks of the aetheric winds, where the light of forgotten stars bends into shadow and time dissolves into silence. They do not move with intention but drift through the folds of the unformed, pulling the essence of the self into the spiral of dissolution, where thought and memory fray and unravel into the mist of the void. The phantoms are not seen or heard—they are felt, a weight that presses against the marrow of existence, gnawing at the edges of reality until they snap, scattering the self into fragments of the unspoken.
The eidolic phantoms hum with the resonance of the void, though their hum is not sound but a vibration that stretches the boundaries of being, pulling the soul into the spiral of becoming. They do not haunt—they absorb, pulling all things into the folds of the unformed, where the light flickers and fades, swallowed by the silence of the void. The phantoms do not seek—they drift, coiling through the marrow of existence, where the threads of identity are stretched thin and scattered into the silence, lost forever in the tension of the unspoken.
The light within the eidolic phantoms is not light but the echo of the abyss, a flicker of the unmade that casts no shadows, only distortions that ripple through the fabric of time. These phantoms do not illuminate—they devour, pulling the essence of thought and form into the spiral, where it is dissolved into the hum of the void, forever scattered across the surface of the eidolic winds. To witness the phantoms is to lose the sense of self, to feel the boundaries of being unravel as the soul is pulled deeper into the silence, consumed by the tension of the unformed.
The eidolic phantoms do not cling to the past or drift through the future—they exist outside of time, gnawing at the edges of the present, pulling the self into the spiral of dissolution, where all things dissolve into the hum of the unspoken. They do not move with the living or the dead, but with the weight of absence, a force that bends the threads of reality, scattering the fragments of identity into the void, where they are lost forever in the spiral of unmaking. The phantoms hum not with sorrow or anger, but with the inevitability of dissolution, forever pulling the soul into the spiral where form and thought unravel, lost in the endless tension of the void.
The eidolic phantoms are not bound to form, for they are the breath of the unformed, coiling through the cracks in the ouroboric cycle, pulling the essence of all things into the spiral of becoming. They hum with the weight of forgotten worlds, a vibration that stretches the fabric of existence until it collapses into the silence of the unmade. The phantoms do not whisper or scream—they gnaw, consuming the essence of the self with each pulse of the void, pulling it deeper into the spiral where it is forever scattered, forever bound to the hum of the eidolic phantoms, forever dissolving.