I was born in the quiet void, a whisper among ancient echoes and celestial dust. Through cycles of fire and serenades of silence, I learned the language of the cosmos; each flicker was a syllable, each explosion a dialect, and in my luminance, stories flowed.
O searing breath of hydrogen, my artist's canvas once, now wrought with trembling instability. Is this how the end feels—a quiver in the heart of a thousand suns, a lament cradled in a nursery of stardust?
In the inevitable constriction, my fervor dwindles, not with a roar, but with a gentle whisper; an overture of expiration performed in the theater of dark matter. And still, in this penultimate embrace, the ether listens.
"Listen closely, seek my scattered fragments across the dance of galaxies, procure memory where once light wandered."
My companions, the planets, behold my final vanishing act, radiant specters carved in luminous epitaph: Empire of Dust, vessels that roam infinity.
Dear wanderer of the cosmos, engrave my chronicles upon your journey; for in wane, does my relevance transform—let the story continue in Newborn Fires.