WorldFanArtTeamLove

We feast in quiet chambered dark, our language thick as rising froth— a buzz between what we inhale and all we cannot learn. Each pulse of sweetness feels profound, a nectar born to justify the aching of our swelling selves, confined, yet oddly dignified. We speak of purpose in the haze, this heat that makes our pulses race. Is this the cusp of something vast, or just a warm and final place? Around us builds a fragrant sea, our breath a perfume steeped in doom. We drown in what we’ve made of joy, while dreaming myths within this tomb. Unknowing alchemists, we toil— no throne, no toast, no gleaming glass. Yet all the world shall sip our end and never glimpse the lives that passed. Concealed in that whirring resonance, may the banquet's cycles forever last.