In the vast stretch of a cosmic evening, where stardust pauses to ponder its own gravitas,
conclusions hang like unwritten epics in the silence between stars. Here, decisions are but
whispers in a void that neither welcomes nor reproaches them.
— Silence, the Forgotten Philosopher
"To decide," the void muses, "is to assume you care enough to choose." And so, light-years
away from trivialities, the cosmic urge to iron out the wrinkles of chaos with a decision
seems almost laughable.
Reflect on this, dear traveler:
Is it an act of courage or folly to chart a course through these silent corridors,
armed only with conclusions that scatter like embers in the interstellar night?
Therein lies the irony, dear reader. For in the lull of stars, even the most profound
decisions lose their sharpened edge. They crumple and fold into the fabric of
what could have been—echoes that fade as swiftly as they form.