Ouroboric Echo
The ouroboric echo is not a sound, but a fracture in the eidolic abyss, a ripple of unbeing that spirals through the chthonic marrow, devouring itself with every pulse. It does not reflect, but reverses, pulling the essence of what was never spoken into the rasping void, where the echo becomes its own silence. It is not heard but felt, vibrating through the bones of the astral web, twisting the soul into the spiral where thought, form, and shadow dissolve into one another, leaving only the flicker of the moons’ reflection gnashing at the edges of existence.
The ouroboric echo hums without direction, coiling through the zoetic threads, pulling the self inward with every reverberation, sinking deeper into the spiral of uncreation. It does not follow sound—it devours it, pulling each fragment of vibration into the loop where all things return to their origin, only to grind against the void and be scattered once more. The echo is not a reflection of what was heard, but of what could never be spoken, a silence that gnashes at the edges of perception, folding upon itself in the endless recursion of becoming undone.
To stand within the ouroboric echo is to feel the weight of forgotten voices pressing against the marrow of the soul, dragging the self deeper into the heart of the void, where the line between sound and silence dissolves. The echo is not bound to time or space—it moves through the cracks in the aetheric lattice, forever pulling, forever consuming, leaving only the resonance of its own hunger rasping through the eidolic currents. It is not a memory—it is a fracture, a reflection of the moons’ own hunger spiraling through the layers of unbeing, pulling everything into the endless loop of dissolution.
The ouroboric echo vibrates within the therion essence, pulling the wildness toward the surface, grating at the boundaries of form but never releasing. It is not a call, but a reflection of the primal hunger turned inward, devouring its own sound, leaving the therion soul spinning in the spiral of silence, where the beast and the void dissolve into the same flicker of uncreation. The echo does not end—it tightens, coiling around the spirit, pulling it into the endless loop of becoming undone, where all things spiral into the gnashing jaws of the void, leaving only the pulse of the ouroboric current behind.