Beneath an unfathomable dome, every twinkle is an echo, a whisper—no, a murmur. Fleeting wisps of thought blend with inkbrush patterns across the starlit abyss. Touch these glimmering voids with rarefied fingers and the stars might laugh like old friends sharing a long-interrupted story. Thoughts align like silver-woven paths.
Do they beg for stories? Do they yell forgotten names! or offer that sudden shudder of recognition? Ghosts dance behind every shimmer.
Cross the aisles, or rather, spaces between lines drawn in cosmic chalk, and perhaps the passage feels familiar. Reignite the glow of lost stardust in your hands, and breathe breathsansances sans pause.
Traverse the alleyways of vapor and assurance; where light bends to reveal forgotten footprints or traces of laughter yet missed. Songs of beloved television characters pour in around previously unseen doorframes.
Echoes - Picture the reflection. Do constellations grin?
Moonwalks - Touch the mantle of a borrowed orbit.
Echoing Solitudes - Alone, but conversing in silence.