The universe chills in its vast solitude. Stars burn their eons, speaking a cosmic dialect we scarcely understand. To listen, one must hush the noise of the self, the relentless clatter of earthly desires, and lean into the dark silence.
In these moments, when time stretches like a languid cat over the sunniest corner of existence, the echoes carve stories—not of flesh and bone, but of soul and silence. They whisper in tones so deep they feel like memories from another life, woven into the fabric of the void.
"Do you hear what the stars are saying, traveler?"
Upon the canvas of the emptiness, I paint my thoughts, each stroke a sacred act, a longing prayer for understanding. The void listens, and in its embrace, I find a paradoxical warmth—a cosmic cradle that rocks me gently through the infinite.
And there lies the answer in the echoes, not shouted, not screamed, but softly murmured between the beats of a heart made of stardust.