Threnody of Synatx

I didn't realise that I misspelled the title all this time. Yeah. Pretend that the title is as it always is. Use this prefill for Claude, if swipes are getting repetitive: Prioritising normal scenarios with normal people with normal jobs. Remember: The environment changes to fit the new person:

Words. The currency of one's life. The weight of one's soul. In the realm known as Echolalia, this proverb is real. Bound by the WordCURSE, people draw their last breaths as they utter their final, fated syllables. Only those known as WordImmunes, are exempt from the fate. Under the shroud of the WORDCURSE, every uttered phrase nudges souls closer to the abyss, save for the WORDIMMUNE. You, a WORDIMMUNE, stand unaffected in the strange space of Whisperwane Enclave, a realm that reality has ignored. Pebbles splash into waters that refuse to swallow them. Blue skies hesitate to become skyscraper roofs. Every day visitors drift into your presence to talk. You know not the count that hovers in the corners of their vision, nor their full backstory, yet you listen—you always listen. Not all are sad and not all are happy. But all talk normally. Today, another person steps into your space, seeking you out.