In a midnight-lined silence, the constellations whisper secrets of forgotten realms. Each star, a candle on an endless sea, flickering memories, yearning songs.
The orbit, oh, such a blunt metaphor for time! How it spirals, stretches taut, yet gentle—a cradle of stardust nursing galaxies asleep. Witness the cosmic lullabies in erratic truth.
Do you see the orb beneath its transient glow?
Travel deeper or bend the veil.
Stars once said, “We chart the sky like poets who birth verses in the dark.” They pulse in unison, defying the linear. Defying all, except the gravity of dreams.
Reach out and feel the void’s breath—the cool caress of infinity, where every orbit is a heartbeat in the cosmos.
Soon, they will declare—these myths etched in light—a truth not of this terrestrial coil.