In the crests of celestial silences, fragments pirouette, composers of contrast, orchestrators without opuses - hear the sounds without sound, the music that aspires yet dares not descend into the cacophonous realms of fate.
What is this mellifluous emptiness, if not a symphony borne aloft by nothingness, lilting whispers in tirades of the unutterable? The void clutches at the tapestry of sound, a fugue woven into the very sinews of existence, yet forlorn, irretrievable, like dreams adrift in twilight's embrace.
And thus, I wander with haste, between starlit ether, transmutating echoes into luminiferous shadows, gazing into the crystalline abyss of unwritten history. My hearth rests amongst galactic remnants, afar from elder thrones within celestial papyruses.
The void, an artist - etches intricate runes onto horizons:
In the stilled harmonies, pivot pasts turn lucid, phantom notes coalesce, lamps of desire flicker beneath spectral tremors - Oh, let not the heart's longing be in vain, subsistence of rhythm void of resonance finds neither fear nor certainty, only the eternal contraction and concatentation.