Embedded in the eternal ink of the abyss—the stars are fleeting memories carved into the fabric of night. Once you behold the celestial choir, the underbelly of dreams quivers, longing for redemption amidst hoary nebula whispers. Sketches of specters are scribbled in the infinite margins.
In the far rafters of time's dome, montaged constellations greet with ghostly grins. Here, time unravels its pen, doodling formless omens in perpetual dusk. Gripping the silence are braided tales, each folktale bleeding through the void, each gasp a galaxy unbound.
The heavens whisper... do you hear them? Celestial aeons linger behind velvet curtains drawn too close with shadows that abide fear. Pause, if you dare, beneath the astral arches strewn with darkened stars.