In the sepulcher of night, stars weave forgotten lullabies. Imagine listening as galaxies twist their cosmic tongues, whispering the dirges of luminance—echoes of ethereal constellations.
Once upon a comet's tail, there lies a path untrodden, where dreams bleed into the orbits of distant spheres. Pulses of light dance, erratic, across the dark expanse, a silent witness to the genesis of celestial hieroglyphs.
Gravity, a gentle hand, caresses these newborn threads of the universe's tapestry. Oh, the dirge it sings, a mournful hymn woven into the very fabric of time, stretching endlessly, like the universe's own heartbeat.
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