When the stars fall, they do not crash into the sea; they waltz away into the ink voids of night where forgotten melodies drip from echoes unseen.
Stitched together from whispers of yore, we gather in twilight's embrace, casting long shadows in turn. Witness the dance of eternity, entwined in silence as harps of black wood mourn silently.
Their constellation: a pattern visible only to dusk walkers tracing lines drawn of midnight ink. Flick dashing starlights floating, a grave serenade undefined by timeless churnings. Yet, in the waking world they rain coal, they crackle under the weight of vision gone.