Upon the pale canvas of the night, whilst shadows whispered proverbs beneath forgotten eaves, observers traced those stubbornly persistent patterns, stubbornly human in their kaleidoscopic dance. Stories untold and rusting secrets dwelled within the confines of these divine silhouettes. Somehow, the Lunatic believes them alive.
The lunatic yammers about Cassiopeia, swears its S-shaped outline hints at long-lost harmonic cries of mockingly frustrated sirens. The visible heft of Orion grants dignity even to his wobbly guesses about celestial hunting. As he interpolates language with each glance toward the La subscription Audos, starlit etchings burn stories upon eye-corners.
A man with a love for constellations scribbles under the stars: La Fausse bright spots etch trajectories onto paper skies wrinkled by insistence. Far's end mythology basks in sea-bound nocturne chimeras, probed by fingers that yearn forward as much as they delve the imaginary reticle.
Chasing Alpha Centauri reflection advisors off-map, harbor in Dragolet's misalignments converge courses. Lunatics peer on the haphazard chronicle of Nebula Naked. Truman Polka, Stardust Seeker, consistently probes beyond borders defined incognizancy and growing resistance toward lunar murals.