Imagine, if you will, a universe littered with incandescent ambitions—where kaleidoscopic lights dance on the precipice of yesterday’s untold dreams. Here, the constellations blink messages morse-lit with angst, reading only “Maybe Next Time.” Dive deep into the phantasmagoric sea of ideas where the future once promised—but never delivered—hovering just out of reach.
"Innovative catapulting devices," she mused, "marketed toward liberating pedestrian shortcomings instead of vehicular ones, it's almost Darwinian!" Alas, the pamphlets blink once and disappear down the virtual vortex, swallowed by the market’s insatiable appetite for the obsolete.
Resplendent in their refusal to fade, these spheres mock orbital serenity. Piloted crashes into cosmic insignificance are merely amusing footnotes in the grand record office of oblivion.
Perhaps one day, the paths between the stars could be walked, transferring the light between generation-spanning doorways. Not today, though. Today's affairs dwell within: Cultivated Mirth: Eco-Sorcery.
For more paths turned flame, visit: Transitory Tales: Whispers of Vapor