Fragmented whispers, echoes of untamed comets, dancing the forgotten waltz in the outskirts of Orion's Belt. I send these messages adrift, hoping they breach the silent borders of photons, caught in the beams of wandering light.

A celestial tide glimmers, an eternal current unseen. The moon cradles its dreams in the lullaby of distant galaxies, as each star hums its hymn—a lost tune that ripples through spacetime, longing to awaken the asteroids from their slumber.

The band of the Milky Way enchants, a canopy of dreamers. I write this amid the constellations' breath, tracing their ancient choreography with fingers trembling from the midnight frost.

Send me signals through the ether. Reach for the absent constellations, where color meets gravity, and our thoughts ascend unabated.

Cosmic silence wishes, but here, the celestial notes linger, archived in the boughs of the night. Maybe one day, this log will find its orbit around some inner eye, a truth bound by the tempo of the unknown.