Somewhere between stardust and quiet dreams,
an artist whispers to the darkness.
To paint the stars is to emulate their eternal wander. Brushes made of comet tails, palettes mixing with the cosmic winds. Yet, these creators work as a nameless craft, weaving a history not written, but felt in the gravitational pulse of uncharted marbles.
The universe speaks through its echoes. We, the echoes that woke, learning to sculpt our silence into presence. Seeking the center of an ever-expanding scope, not in all-consuming hunger, but in all-sustaining humility.
And within each nova’s blink lies a potential chord waiting to be struck, reverberating quietly through an infinite canvas, spreading across time’s soft measure.