Here rest the wanderers. Among nebulae and comets, where silence has no choice but to echo, their untold truths anchored in the stars' forlorn shelters. The twilight whispers regrets of voyages never undertaken as the void yawns with promises encased in darkness.
Each harbor undulates with memories sewn into the fabric of the cosmic sea — threads as coarse as time's relentless drag. Behold the ripples, a constellation of despair cast adrift, '\\marooned%' in oblivion, defying even the fallacies of predetermined fate.
A murmur of celestial winds recalls the abandoned facades, rusting beneath layers of astral dust. Here lies the ugliest truth, swathed in crimson auroras: true calm is found only in the absence of all things. The harbors sigh in echoes of their own timelessness.