It is within the upheaval of cosmic dances that perfect disorder finds expression. One might interrogate the celestial mechanisms that govern such eloquence; alas, the inquiries diminish into whispers against a universe looming grandly indifferent.
The question, often asked in hushed reverence by those adorn with curiosity, is thus: does gravity wield stories unseen, with mystery revolving like shadowed marbles casting long desires but caught in repetitious looping fate?
The fabric of the skies — an eternal sandbox — constructs peculiar fortresses atop our aspirations. Yet, in darkness, there glimmers a subjective rightness, spoken as lullabies by unseen stewards.