In the wake of the cosmic rhapsody, orbit by orbit, we churn the tides of stars. Such is the call of the rambling ballerinas high above, their whispers painted across the void. A glow unseen paints our silhouettes in an invisible light; anointing paths we daren't shadow afresh.
A moment gifted by the trail of a cosmic wanderer, unraveling phrases left only half-thought. They are creams for the heart, serums for latent echoes of time. Thus, every stardust-speckled night transforms into a canvas drenched with the innocence of the universe's age-old rhythm.
Here, we reside amid the confluence of understanding and questing, tracing abstract threads of meaning draped between ruminations of what ceaselessly becomes an identity torn from unseen sketches.