Constellation of Fractures

Once upon a time, we sailed the stars. We drifted among whispered tales and woven spells, tracing the edges of constellations that flickered with their ancient truths. We paused beneath the sky, more an ocean than a firmament, where each ripple promised discovery, each wave a fracture in time's own cradle.

We whispered back. The echoes of dreams stirred, pulse against pulse within the endless night. They spoke of pathways lined with light, of galaxies that bend and twist—not to shape worlds, but to reveal the invisible constellations of thought, memory, and dream.

Between each glimmer, each broken star, were tables of hidden script, etched silently into the void, reminding us that the night was more a book of stories than a shelter of worlds. Stories waiting for seekers, for those brave enough to read the sky's delicate prose.

Perhaps once more, we will stitch the patterns from fragments unseen. Perhaps once more we will allow the words that gravity has scattered to assemble anew—looping fisherman's knots in the great net of absence.

pattern arc echo