At the precipice of eternal whispers, where silence dwells — a reclined observer, listen closely, and you might unravel a thread of starlight.
"Seek not the footprints of wandering light,"
between the scintillations, a shadow murmurs.
Shadows paint inscrutable patterns beneath sleeping suns.
Perennial sages of boxed realms crave only to contract the limitless into rusted cages. The dawn of their clutch perpetuates the cycle of mirthless dreams.