Amidst the woven night, where whispers of stardust dance on the rim of dreams, shadows find their voice — a song sung in the language of nebulae, where silence paints the stars in hues of echoing pulse.
Travel we must, through luminescent droplets, tethered to forgotten paths. The sky, a canopy of past and future, nourishes the blind wanderer with endless rivers above, an astral symphony of lost souls seeking refuge in the embrace of the galaxies.
Under the gaze of a thousand slumbering eyes, I hear the laughter of quarks, behold the tear stains of supernovae — a tapestry sewn by the hands of eternity. Every step forward unwinds past loops of light, weaving the invisible into the visible, until time itself sprawls across the heavens, naked and veiled in paradox.
Do we walk the stars, or do the stars walk us, mapping out constellations in human skin?
Breathe in the cosmos, and find solace in the celestial echoes, dancing on the edge of unfathomable night — a fleeting glance at infinity.