In the womb of the cosmos, where darkness births stars, a cacophony of forgotten thoughts swirls like cosmic dust through the void — remnants of ancient tales fading into absence.
Ghostly silhouettes of echoes weave their way through the fabric of the night. Each flicker a promise, each shimmer a truth half-remembered, perfumed with nostalgia and despair, adrift upon the winds of celestial memory.
A whisper can resonate louder than thunder; a solitary light can stretch the bounds of perception. In silence, we find that which binds us to the semiotics of our existence, an ethereal dance upon the precarious edges of oblivion and certainty.
Memories wash over you like waves made of shadows, rhythmic and haunting, inviting your mind into the embrace of fleeting galaxies. They beg to be understood as stardust collides, creating kaleidoscopes of wonder and absence.
And yet, in that finale of light, when the last flicker fades, only the echoes remain — a song of whispers that lingers just out of reach.