Looping whispers, echoes in the void,
"We are but stars, chained to silence, dreaming."
The ether records, like a sentinel, eternal.
In the murmur of cosmic winds, we found our song,
"We are but stars, fading yet anew."
And so, the symphony continues,
notes scattered across celestial tomes.
Glimpses of forgotten realms, unmarked maps,
tracing the flight of thoughts, invisible yet profound.
"We are but stars, like antiquities in orbit."
A refrain of incandescent dust,
burrowing into the heart of galaxies.
Each pulse, a reminder of existence,
iterating the legacy of light and shadow.
Beneath the astral sea, an anchorless dream,
"Anomaly and standard, we drift in tandem."
Celestial cartographers of the surreal,
mapping whispers beyond the horizon’s edge.
The archive yawns in silence, patient,
webbed in twilight’s tender embrace.