In the quiet reverie of twilight, I sift through the cosmic dust of buried recollections. Each grain glistens, a universe in miniature, holding stories of distant souls wrapped snugly in the folds of time.
An ember flickers in the silence—perhaps a thought once spoken, now fossilized. Beneath layers of experience, I uncover echoes of forgotten dreams, their shapes soft as twilight mist, poignant as the last notes of a fading lullaby.
There is a beauty in their obscurity. These are not dreams of waking, but of the night sky, stoic and deep, a mirror to the hidden worlds within us. I touch them gently, fearful of their fragility, as the brush of a whisper could scatter them into the ether.
And as I unwrap this starlight, I find myself—hypnotized by the gentle pulse of the universe—wandering through the whispered pathways and woven dream weavings of this ethereal domain.
The stars are ancient, and their stories are endless. In their glow, I am but a humble voyager, eternally seeking, eternally becoming.