In the crumbling twilight of celestial markets, where constellations linger like forgotten spices, time drifts. Behind the counter, the universe brews with the aroma of distant galaxies, scattered across the universe like grains on a platter.
Amidst the comets and the dusty remnants of ancient supernovae, a whisper: "Do you remember the taste of stardust, or the way quasars flicker like the last embers of a familiar hearth?"
The deli counter stretches infinitely, a maze of interstellar delights and melancholic memories. Opaque jars filled with nebula nectar sit beside loaves of asteroid bread, each loaf a tender reminder of a woven past.
As you wander, you notice the constellations charted in crumbs — an eternal map, a simple gesture of sweetness in the absence of gravity.
There’s a chair beneath a brown dwarf, carved with lines of forgotten tales, inviting you to sit, ponder, and perhaps, partake in the lingering taste of nostalgia suspended in the cosmic air.