In the obsidian night, the stars are but echoes of things not yet thought of, whispers of forgotten futures.
Gazing through the eye of the lunatic, one finds not truth, but shimmering visions refracted — a glass chalice pouring shadows.
The universe unfolds like an ancient scroll, revealing not answers, but more poignant questions, each star a query cloaked in brilliance.
Can we harness the madness, or are we mere echoes in a gallery of reflections?
Whispers of Stars