Ever look up and feel the stories those stars would tell if only they could? Kind of like that friend who rambles on about the universe over a cup of tea. There's this comfort in the silence of the cosmos, like an invisible blanket.
You know, I once doodled a little rocketship next to a question about the mitochondria in biology class. Never did find out what they do, but I like to think they powered that paper astronaut's journey through space. Fly Away
Time's a funny old thing, isn't it? Slips through your fingers like grains of sand, and when you look back, it's like seeing the shadows left by waves on a moonlit shore. Whisper in the echoes.
Imagine if starlight was a form of expression, like a cosmic art gallery. Each twinkle a brushstroke, painting memories across the universe's grand canvas.
Here's a thought: Maybe the galaxies are just really long notes etched in the dark, their melodies only perceptible in the gentle hum of dreams.