Were you to hear the murmur of starlit patterns above, you'd know of heaving skies painted with silver whispers. They warble pleasures known only to souls that drink in the astral nectar.
I recall moments where destinies are stretched like silk threads in this whimsical sphere, and echoes of your voice linger—symphonies as vivid as roaring auroras harmonizing the rift.
These latticeworks around us weave mysteries deep, yet so clear, afternoons spent like petals dancing on saffron zephyrs. When dawn flirts with twilight between our heartbeats, we embrace the boundless exposition of the unknown.