Past twilight, in the East, a treasure lies, guarded by the angel of our souls; an indescribable energy, spirits of our antecedents, stolen by the unbelievers. But, mind, you shall not gain entry by her before the allotted time. Yet tarry, and still she may break you, as cruelly as the closing of The Book upon a butterfly.
And how shall we know this precise time?
When you hold taught a pure, white thread next to a dark one, and no more will you be able to discern one from the other.
This prompt is kindly devised by Mindlovemisery’s menagerie.
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