In a realm where dreams mingle with reality and the ethereal becomes the norm, there exists a convocation most unique—a symposium of spirits, not unlike a congregation of the corporeal, where camaraderie blooms in a twilight embrace. These ethereal beings, unshackled by the deceit that tethers the living, weave their interactions with the silken threads of complete experience and innate understanding.
Within their spectral ballet, there is a purity of communication, devoid of duplicity, for their translucent essences allow nothing to hide. They shimmer with a luminescent honesty, their very existence a tapestry of open thoughts and shared emotions. They possess an inherent clairvoyance, a profound intuition that tenderly unveils the heart of every fading whisper and silent yearning.
Their conversations, effervescent and untethered by flattery, float in the delicate balance of souls fully bared—what some may see as devoid of spice is, in essence, the epitome of authenticity. Our mortal dialogue, peppered with the cunning spice of deceit, stands in stark contrast to their genuine discourse.
And there, in the still embrace of the witching hour, their murmurs reverberated above my resting place. A gentle spectator to their ethereal colloquy, I draped my sanctuary—the humble blanket—over my head, granting these gentle phantoms the comfort of the unseen audience, as they painted the night with their whispers of pure being.