Through the ether drift whispers of bygone commotion, like shadows casting tales of light never dawned.
The silver screen flickers static in void, an auditorium empty, a spotlight on the essence of luminescence unseen.
They asked the stars, "What is the constellation of fate?" but the night replied only with silence and its celestial dance.
The astral tapestry unwinds, revealing knots of tender stories, woven narratives of worlds long expired.
In the inky depths, a question brews in the intimate roots of the universe: Who holds the cosmic quill?
With each twilight, the planetary theatre prompts new acts, unseen scripts writ in the ether's breath.
A gravity-bound heart ponders: Is time a tale told by the stars?