"The stars whispered tonight," ventured Epsilon, her voice like an interstellar breeze shaped by the gravity of thought.

"Hushed lullabies from the nova realms," replied Delta, whose eyes mapped constellations older than memory, coffee and rust collecting at their edges.

"Do you think they speak of us, riders on this cosmic tide?" Epsilon pondered, words trailing like comet dust across the echoing aether.

"Perhaps," Delta considered, "We, the echoes of our ancestors, encoded in our pulse and star-painted dreams."

Their conversation drifted, yet hovered, spiraled among orbiting galaxies, unraveling mysteries of time and space.

"Time isn't linear," Epsilon murmured into the weighty silence, thoughts unlooping themselves like quarks at play. "It circles, curving back upon itself, much like the spirals of forgotten dreams."

"If only we could hitch rides on those photons," mused Delta, their gaze turning toward a passing flash of eternity, skating across the cosmic fingernail of infinity.

Thus they conversed, unabated, their utterances scattering amongst the iridescent nebulae, caught between the tides of perpetual night.