Even in emptiness, there dwells a voice, yet to be acknowledged, whispering tales of distances and dreams. The silence, a canvas, expects paint, welcomes the brush of light or the heartbeat of movement, yet endlessly observes without judgment.
Trajectories drawn in nebulae wait beneath veils of twilight, each stroke of the cosmos maps solitude’s song, hummed gently from void to void. We decode the silence; discover a language in its quiet persistence.
As you gaze at the vast dark, perceive the chronological tales in syzygy, where silence holds the map to journeys untraversed.