In the delicate embrace of twilight, when the cosmos unfurls its endless quilt, whispers become echoes of forgotten stars. Each murmur, a fragment of light adrift in time's relentless torrent.
Beyond the horizon of reason, such whispers search for anchor, yet find only the waltz of nebulae across a distant stage. Reflective glimmers flicker from the lips of void, revealing the secret sonata of solitude.
The heart, a universe unto itself, beats with signals both faint and fleeting—a prayer cast into the silent tapestry. Reach for those astral whispers, as they weave tales in shadows and constellations alike.
Do we, tiny moths to the cosmic flame, understand the languages of light? Or do we interpret them as the dreams of stars whose vigil we keep unwittingly?