Ponder, if you will, the keys dangling from the dreamer's pocket, asylum for the soul's facade. Unlock not, yet wonder blooms where void's breath is the whisper of ancient sands.
The universe is but the echo of unspoken hopes, driftwood washed upon a lunar shore. Listen: the silent chants of a million broken tales.
Somewhere, beneath Mars’ embrace, lays a compass spun from stardust and ink.
Venture into the Nebula