In the vastness of the cosmos, shadows themselves dance. They are not projections of light, but rather the absence of it. When stars flicker in the night, they cast silhouettes against the backdrop of eternity, silhouettes that are shaped by an energy we have yet to understand.
Consider the nebulae, their colorful halos deceivingly visible, where particles sculpt forms in the void. Here lies the truth: light's unseen kin moves, shifting landscapes into realms of possibility, where the dance is eternal and unseen forces guide the choreography.
What is the light that cannot be seen? Is it the foundation of existence, casting shapes in realms beyond our perception? The answer lies in the drift, where celestial bodies navigate through currents of invisible energy. These bodies, governed by forces unseen, tell tales of creation and destruction, of time unbound by the hands of the visible.
As we gaze into the night, we are but voyagers on a tapestry woven by threads of both visible and invisible light. Understanding this drift is to understand the language of the cosmos, a dialect where every star tells a story, every shadow a chapter.