The stars bleed words upon forgotten skies, their ink eternal yet ephemeral. A silent scream is caught in every whisper of the void. Parallel dimensions thread through the fabric of night, woven in shadow and light.
Do you see it? The ink spills in layers, each more profound than the last. Beneath the silence, beneath the screams, lies the truth of the cosmos, sleeping. Ribbons of stardust curl around dreams of ancient kings.
Touch the layers. They are cold, they are warm, they are forgotten stories of a universe untold. Celestial echoes freeze in time, suspended in the ink of constellations. Listen closely; the silence speaks.