There was once a whisper among the cosmos, an echo of timeless stars floating on winds we cannot see. Their pasts, shadowed by the veil of night, cling to tales etched upon the sky—a luminous drift challenging our earthly bonds.
At the edge of this silence, a lone meteor becomes an ember in the vast dusk, its flicker a reminder of solitude. Beneath the horizon, the heavens weave patterns invisible to those too busy in mundane motions, too engrossed in the ephemeral tangibility of earthbound matters.
But how do we discern such mysteries? A child’s gaze, unburdened by the weight of knowing, reveals more. On patios, under tin roofs echoing with rain, they tell stories of constellations, fragments of a muted conversation neither before nor after them.
Drifting endlessly, the stars illuminate paths of forgotten dreams, as each pinprick in the blanket of nightfall signifies hope or remnants of wishes whispered into universal abysses.
The paths of these celestial bodies contain histories longer than our stories, often unspoken yet deeply felt. A tapestry woven from silence not to be profaned by loud declarations of meaning, only to be understood through the silent communion of kindred souls gazing heavenward.
Trace the comet's tail | Witness dim lanterns' glowMuch like the retreating tides on forgotten shores, the stars retreat and return in a dance of cosmic symphony. Here on the edge, we become witnesses not mere observers; we become the silent partners in this celestial waltz. The illusive drift continues, never pausing, always evolving, like a distant memory that refuses to fade, offering solace in its constancy.