In the echoing silence of the abyss, we find the origin—lay dormant, untouched by the sands of time.
Whisper of the ancients: the stars once spoke, their tongues riddled with cosmic dust, decoded only by the lost art of hearing them melt into silence.
Reflective murmurs ripple through the vast nothingness, hinting at stories carved in whispers, forgotten in the oxygen-less breath of the void. Nostalgia drapes itself thickly everywhere and nowhere, a memory of a time unexamined.
"The cosmos is a mirror," she wrote in trembling letters, unfathomable and profound. The ink smudged like the smear of galaxy across an otherworldly canvas.
The introspection wanes like a celestial tide, drawing back the ephemeral veneer of understanding. Beneath the surface, fossils of thoughts lay sheltered in shadows—molded by the passage of eternity.
"I once, perhaps pompously," he mused, "sought to fathom the rhythm of dying stars, believing therein lies the soul's final destination."
The Unheard Truth Effect of Starlight on Dreams