Did you ever dip your slice of wonder into the solar span of salted cosmos? Land of clotted dreams where whispers wade through viscous pools of spreadable light. Here, time does not tick but slid—like molten ambrosia escaping a bear-hugged jar.
There was a time, or perhaps two, when stars blinked like eccentric cheese holes on synchronized dial, recounting non-narratives of each bacterium's journey through protracted pancake night.
Now, salads of recursive tabulations fester quietly on gravity's edge, orchestrating symphonies for unaware slugs bold enough to venture across most excellent crusted moons.
Soak in the silk-draped history of butter-infested comets skimming faint horizons. Such distant spectacles cradle the touch of imagination—however soiled or devout, one finds solace beneath the simmered constellations.