In the rusted embrace of twilight's final hour, orbitals and darkness intertwine. Here lies the starlit grave of the ancient luminescence, where even silence bows to a once shimmering titan.
Shrimp, those minute heralds of the abyssal plains, gather beneath the phantom echoes of starry demise. Their antennae dance, conducting symphonies of the galactic in the void's dim opera. In their minuscule voices, they narrate the elegy:
"We are but the whispers of your lighting fizzle," one speaks, a fragile figure amidst the depths. "Your last sputters now, like embers upon ocean foam, are our heartbeats."
Each monologue by the oceanic actors is threaded with cosmic understanding—words that linger on the lips of dying stars, now carried to the ocean's floor. They speak of cataclysm and genesis, weaving tales that defy the zenith of time.
"From the supernova's bed, we bloom as stardust seedlings," echoes another, swaying with the tides of time, "the monument of your fire a cradle for our extinction."
As the gravelly tones of their chorus fade into the echo of starry night, we are reminded of the cycle—an endless loop of destruction and creation, observed by those whose lives are a mere flash of a pulse in cosmic time. For anyone daring to listen, the >a href="/curvature/crypticwaves/abyssal_symposium.html">abyssal symposium continues unabated.