Laid bare beneath the unblinking gaze of the astral lighthouse, the void opens like a tome of forgotten constellations in a language not meant for mortal lips. A tapestry of shadows unfurls, its fibers spun from dreams unclaimed, its hues whispered secrets of the cosmos.
Reverberations drip from the silence, golden ambrosia of soundless hymns, composing symphonies without beginnings or ends, echoing through the chambers of solitude. Listen, and you may hear the pulse of stars, the hidden rhymes of the universe folded neatly in the folds of nothingness.
Within this chasm, inexpressibly vast, lies a cradle of eternity, where time cradles the memory of its own absence. Here, one might glimpse the eddies of galaxies spinning idle futures, painting the fabric of infinity with delicate strokes of light and longing.