The Midnight Zone

In the crushed velvet of the midnight zone, silver pulses blink through heavy glass. We carry the ghosts of lanterns, swallowed by the pressure of our own depths.

Memory is a jellyfish, translucent and drifting, trailing long threads of stinging light. It blooms in the dark, a cold fire, unseen by the surface where the wind howls.

We are cartographers of the abyss, mapping the topography of forgotten salts. The silence here is not empty; it is heavy with the resonance of ancient tides.

Phosphorescence clings to the skin like a promise, a language spoken in flickers and fades. We sink until we are weightless, radiating the stories we never learned to tell.