239.7 degrees, 43.2 light-years distant. The stars talk, but can you hear what they say? Each blink a whisper of forgotten realms, spinning just beyond your reach. What maps are we tracing amidst the tangled tendrils of the cosmos?
In the dark expanse, where directions slip like sand through fingers, I drift—lost in the static hum of existence. Each point of light an anchor; yet I float. Paradox drips like morning dew on mossy thoughts; the universe unfolding presents a mirror, distorted yet revealing.
On the cusp of knowing, they say the constellations hold witness. But which truths are eclipsed in their glow? Remember, voyager, that the stars themselves are but stories told in the language of the void, shaped by perceptions oscillating through time's tapestry.