In the chill of a night edged with cosmic silvers, the whispers of ancient stars echoed against the silence. A celestial hum that spoke of forgotten aeons, where time peeled layers off existence, revealing the marrow of reality and uncertainty.
What does it mean to touch the infinite with fingertips that long for the tangible? Nostalgia for a future that has never been, woven into ragged interstellar tapestries. Anchors of driftwood lost in the gentle wail of stardust.
Echoes of the SandsWe are whispers woven into the fabric of the cosmos. From the ashes of supernovae, we are stitched into existence, only to be unraveled by entropy’s caress. What remains when all is said and unsaid?
A dance of shadows plays behind the sun, a parade of lonesome constellations. In their wake, silence becomes the loudest truth. Yet, even silence holds stories, tales of cosmic wanderers longing for home, for meaning.
Tales in Rust