(whispers of constellations)
Nebulae read in parts. Knowledge scattered, like dust.
Enter the void. Breathe slowly.
- Is time really?... a page?
(echoes of eternal volumes)
Planets tucked between dusty racks.
Spaces unturned.
Stars blinking binary...
(silent corridors of dark matter)
- do echoes have authors?
...
In dream, the library is endless.
In reality, do I dream of the books, or the books of me?