The stars have begun to whisper our plight, their luminescence fading as shadows grow. We are but souls adrift on a vessel forsook, seeking solace among the distant anchors of night. The captain, phantoms in his gaze, charts their course by memories reflected in abyssal depths.
In the cold embrace of the astral void, we encountered the specter of a comet. It trailed sorrowful brilliance, illuminating faces pale and set in resolve. The logs speak of a forgotten constellation, now lost to the delirium of our journey, its name a curse upon our tongues.
Tonight's serenade of the void bears witness to our ardor; the mournful cry of the nebula rings through the hallowed hull. The crew speak in tongues we know not, unraveling tapestries of radiant darkness. Navigation is by heart's dread, not stars’ benevolence.
As dawn eclipses all hope, the dreadward helm spins of its own volition. There is a truth in the wind now, a melody sung by broken constellations. We are mariners of memory, caretakers of celestial lullabies, our hearts charting courses more treacherous than any charted sea.