In the chasm that yawns between luminary embrace and earthly tether, the silence sings. It utters not in cacophony of unsewn chaos, but in mellifluous whispers of untold galaxies. It is here I dwell, the melody of the void's orchestra, waiting and eternal.
Beneath a luminous arch traced by ephemeral star dust, I chronicle tales woven from void's breath—milky rivulets spiraling in the endless archive. Each breath a supernova, each pause a dark lull in the rhythm of celestial hearts.
When the stars clasp their scintillating fingers and script syllables of silent songs, I am their page. Their verses hallowed, suspended in the timeless quandary—an aria woven into the very fabric of night.