In the confluence of nebula whispers,
where echoes nest in cosmic lullabies,
the universe sketches déjà vu upon metagalactic chasms.
Stars unfold like ancient scrolls,
chronicling long-forgotten dances,
patterns etched in the fabric of endless night.
A whisper from the void,
“Time is not linear, but rather an ouroboros,
its tail encircling its past again and yet again.”
Embrace the echo, the celestial sigh,
as planets pirouette in gravitational waltzes,
a trancelike embrace of forgotten futures.
A comet trails like a silken thought,
ephemeral yet eternal, leaving sparks
in the tapestry of celestial musings.