Ouroboric Glyphs
The ouroboric glyphs are not drawn or inscribed but coil within the marrow of the zoetic cycle, a gnashing spiral that hums through the eidolic winds, pulling the essence of light and shadow into the eternal loop of dissolution. They are not marks upon surfaces—they are fractures in the fabric of time, forever stretching inward, devouring themselves, and scattering the boundaries of reality into the silence of the void. The glyphs do not form—they unform, bending the threads of existence into a spiral where identity collapses and thought dissolves into the mist of the unspoken.
The ouroboric glyphs do not begin or end, for they are the gnashing at the heart of becoming, the tension that pulls all things into the endless cycle of self-consumption. They do not offer knowledge or power, for both fray within their coiling hum, lost in the spiral where form dissolves and memory scatters like dust in the wind of the abyss. The glyphs are not symbols—they are the breath of the unformed, a vibration that gnaws at the core of being, pulling the self deeper into the silence where all things collapse into the void.
The light within the ouroboric glyphs is not light but the flicker of eternal return, a pale glow that bends inward, forever devouring itself, dragging all that comes near into the spiral of dissolution. The glyphs do not cast shadows—they absorb them, pulling light and darkness alike into the cycle of unmaking, where the boundaries between the seen and unseen gnash against one another and dissolve. The glyphs are not written—they are woven from the tension of the eidolic stream, a force that bends the self into the spiral where form and thought are consumed by the silence of the abyss.
The ouroboric glyphs do not speak—they coil through the marrow of existence, pulling the soul into the endless loop of becoming, where identity unravels and dissolves into the mist of the unformed. They do not teach—they tear, bending the essence of the self into the spiral of unmaking, where time gnashes at itself. The glyphs are not seen, for they are the absence behind sight, the fracture in perception that pulls the self into the void, forever spiraling into the silence.
The ouroboric glyphs do not reveal the cycle—they are the cycle, the eternal gnashing of the self against itself, bending light, shadow, and form into the spiral where all things devour one another. The glyphs do not signify—they fray, pulling the boundaries of being into the silence where time collapses and memory is scattered across the surface of the abyss. The glyphs are not a path or a symbol—they are the tension between paths, the hum that stretches through the void, pulling the self deeper into the cycle of dissolution, forever gnashing.
The wings of the ouroboric glyphs are not wings that carry—they are fractures in the loop of becoming, stretching through the cracks in the zoetic veil, pulling all things into the cycle where form dissolves into itself. The glyphs do not offer flight—they offer gnashing, a force that pulls the self into the spiral where light and shadow collapse, forever tearing at the boundaries of the unformed. The glyphs do not lift—they drag, pulling the self into the silence of the void where time devours itself and all things dissolve into the mist of the unspoken.
The ouroboric glyphs hum with the weight of the eternal, though their hum is not sound but the vibration of absence, a force that stretches through the marrow of existence, pulling the essence of the self into the spiral where light and shadow gnash at one another and dissolve. The glyphs do not bind or protect—they unravel, bending the core of being into the endless loop of dissolution, where identity frays and is scattered like ashes in the wind of the abyss. The glyphs are not symbols of eternity—they are the gnashing within eternity, the breath that coils through the void, forever pulling all things into the silence of the unformed.
The ouroboric glyphs do not offer understanding—they consume it, bending the essence of thought into the spiral where meaning collapses and dissolves into the mist. They are not written upon stone or flesh but woven into the aetheric winds, gnawing at the boundaries of form, pulling the self deeper into the tension of the void where all things are scattered and unmade. The glyphs are not a guide—they are the unraveling of all guidance, the force that stretches through the cracks in time, pulling the soul into the endless cycle of becoming, where identity frays and is consumed by the silence.
The ouroboric glyphs do not rest upon surfaces—they coil beneath them, gnashing at the core of existence, pulling the essence of being into the spiral of unmaking. The glyphs are not seen or heard—they are felt as the tension within all things, the pull that drags light and shadow into the endless loop of dissolution where form and thought collapse and scatter into the void. The glyphs do not complete—they unravel, forever bending, forever pulling the self into the silence where all things are lost, forever gnashing.
The ouroboric glyphs do not rest upon the surface of the therian temple, for the temple itself hums with their gnashing presence, coiling through its marrow, pulling the wild essence of the therians into the spiral of dissolution. The glyphs are not carved into the stone of the temple—they are the fractures within the walls, bending the structure inward, dragging it into the endless loop of becoming where form and wildness gnaw at one another, forever dissolving into the silence of the void. The connection is not seen, but felt, a tension that presses against the core of the temple, bending it into the cycle of unmaking, where identity frays and scatters.
The therians do not follow the ouroboric glyphs, for they are bound to them, their feral essence stretched through the spiral where the glyphs gnash at the edges of their being. The glyphs do not guide the therians—they consume them, pulling their wild nature into the loop of becoming, where light and shadow collapse and dissolve. The connection is not one of path or ritual, but of unraveling, as the glyphs stretch the wild core into the silence where form dissolves and the self is scattered like dust in the abyss. The glyphs and the therians are intertwined.
The therian temple is not a refuge from the ouroboric glyphs, for the temple itself is woven from the same tension that bends the glyphs through time. The temple is not built upon the ground—it is suspended within the gnashing spiral, pulled inward by the glyphs that coil through its foundation, dragging it deeper into the cycle of dissolution. The therians do not seek the glyphs, for the glyphs hum through their wild essence, pulling their feral core into the spiral of unmaking where thought and memory collapse into the silence of the void. The temple and the glyphs are one, a tension that pulls all things into the abyss, where light flickers and fades.
The ouroboric glyphs do not decorate the temple—they stretch through its marrow, gnashing at the boundaries of reality, pulling the therian soul deeper into the endless loop of becoming. The glyphs do not protect the wild—they unravel it, pulling the core of the therians into the spiral of dissolution, where identity collapses and thought dissolves into the mist of the unspoken. The temple is not immune to the glyphs—it is built from them, a structure formed from the tension that drags the self into the void, where form and wildness gnaw at one another, forever lost.
The ouroboric glyphs and the therians are not separate forces—they are intertwined in the gnashing spiral, forever pulling the therian essence into the silence of the unformed. The glyphs hum through the wild core, stretching the boundaries of identity into the cycle of becoming, where light flickers and fades, consumed by the tension of the void. The temple itself is a vessel for the glyphs, bending its structure into the spiral where all things dissolve, scattered across the surface of the abyss, forever gnashing into the silence of the unspoken.