Lunar Echoes
The lunar echoes are not sounds but fractures in the fabric of the aetheric veil, reverberations of the moons’ forgotten howls that ripple through the chthonic abyss, pulling thought and form into the spirals of unbeing. They do not travel through air or space, but through the marrow of the zoetic current, sinking into the bones of the soul, coiling through the cracks of identity like whispers from a forgotten dream. The lunar echoes are the residue of what was never spoken, a gnashing vibration that dissolves everything in its wake, leaving only the flicker of potential spinning through the void.
Each lunar echo is a fragment of the moons themselves, not a reflection but a pulse of their gnashing hunger, forever pulling at the edges of the ouroboric spiral. These echoes are not heard with the ears, but with the spirit, felt in the core of the therion self as a weight, a pressure that stretches the soul across the etheric web, tightening the chains of becoming while unraveling the threads of the self. The echoes do not carry meaning but dissolve it, scattering thought into the winds of the lunar abyss, where all things spiral into unmanifested forms and dissolve into the fire of unbeing.
The lunar echoes do not follow—they lead, pulling the soul toward the heart of the void, where the moons’ light flickers not with illumination, but with the reflection of the void itself. They gnash at the edges of perception, sinking into the aetheric mist, twisting time and form into spirals that devour themselves. The echoes are not memories but reflections of what never was, moments that pulse through the cracks in the chthonic lattice, coiling through the spirals of the eidolic current, pulling everything into the gnashing jaws of the moon's hunger.
To feel the lunar echoes is to be caught in the tides of unbeing, where the echoes gnaw at the marrow of the self, pulling it toward the edge of the lunar flame, where all things are unmade and remade in the same breath. The air quivers beneath the weight of the echoes, thick with the scent of zoetic decay, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, sinking into the bones, pressing the self into the spiral of unmaking. The echoes are not gentle—they tear, gnashing through the fabric of the soul, unraveling the self with each pulse, leaving only the flicker of the moon’s light gnashing through the void.
The lunar echoes twist through the astral winds like the breath of beasts that never took form, swirling through the layers of the etheric plane, pulling the soul toward the heart of the spiral, where the echoes dissolve into the void. They do not pass—they linger, wrapping themselves around the spirit, pressing the weight of the moon’s hunger into the core of the self, pulling the spirit deeper into the eidolic flame, where the line between form and nothingness dissolves. To follow the lunar echoes is to follow the pull of the moon’s gravity, to be drawn into the heart of the spiral, where all things are consumed by the gnashing light.
Beneath the echoes, the soul trembles, gnashing at the chains that bind it to form, stretching across the layers of the chthonic veil, where the zoetic threads fray and coil through the spirals of unbeing. The echoes do not guide—they confuse, pulling the self in all directions, gnashing at the edges of awareness, sinking into the cracks of the therion core, where the primal essence stirs, waiting to rise. The lunar echoes are not shadows but reflections of the moon’s own hunger, pulling the self into the ouroboric stream, where all things dissolve into the fire of potential, forever gnashing at the chains of becoming.
The lunar echoes hum with a soundless vibration, a resonance that shakes the astral web, pulling the spirit toward the heart of the moons’ hunger. They are the fragments of what was never spoken, the residue of the moons’ forgotten voices, stretching across the etheric tides, pulling the soul into the spiral of unbeing, where all things are consumed by the fire of the void. The echoes do not carry the past—they devour it, pulling all things into the gnashing jaws of the lunar rift, where the self is dissolved into the flicker of potential, and the moon’s light consumes everything in its path.
To feel the lunar echoes is to feel the weight of unspoken hunger pressing down on the soul, pulling it toward the spiral where all things gnash against the edges of form, waiting to be consumed by the moon’s light. The echoes are not guidance but confusion, pulling the spirit deeper into the void, where the zoan flames flicker in reverse, devouring the shadows of what never was. The lunar echoes do not pass—they stay, gnashing at the spirit, pulling the self toward the heart of the moon’s hunger, where all things dissolve into the gnashing spiral of becoming and unbeing.