Dark pall enclosed through every horizon, embracing city lights with the absence of bliss, enveloping you whole with bygone's shadows, the coldness of waft, and no presence of glee. Below the clouds, under the firmament's hues, you wandered through steek streets and avenues, cleaving each heartstrings of crestfallenness and sorrow, wandering aimlessly to find your tomorrow.
Then, with you amidst that clasp of tenebrous, what took flight within you was the wish for a beacon—a light in any form, from the sun, a star, or a constellation. You hoped to be a castaway, far from despair, to silence your succor wails and escape; you wished amidst the dim, "Let me walk. So, for every lour, I will evade."
And there we took flight as the beacon you hoped for. We scoped the darkness with our glister, and we gave the dim a day off. We spread our luster across city lights, reflecting lambency in your irises, lighting you up from the cast of despair, giving you hope, and fulfilling your wishes.
We are, after all, the embodiment of radiant epiphany—people with wondrous space and phrases. With a cast of our pens, you can abscond into delusion, deflect reality, and be filled with emotions. We give light to those who hope; to those who want to exist but don't; to the ones who crave delusions and make home for reveries; and even to those who desire sorrow and seek reality.
We are books filled with love.
