You ever sit and wonder, in that echoing solitude, where the musings of the cosmos go? Like, mailboxes for the stars that never get filled? I had a dream about one of those. It wasn't very practical, mind you.
Found a parcel in the sky, wrapped all in nebulae, addressed to no one. The return address was... well, it had no stars left to name it. Opened it up, expecting celestial dust, maybe a comet's hairpin or something.
Inside was just silence, packed tight like it was meant to fit in a letter. Whispered secrets, caught in an empty room. Kind of makes you think about what we lose over time, tucked away in cosmic voids.
There’s something eerie about mail that doesn’t belong anywhere. Kind of like us, wandering in search of stickers for the universe to make sense of things.
Or maybe it’s a treasure map, somewhere tucked in the Milky Way’s attic. Ever search the stars?