In the quiet town of Whimsyend, where sidewalks glow faintly blue at night, a man named Cyril wandered. Sleepwalking, they called it, but Cyril swore his feet followed stars that earthbound eyes could not see.
One nighttime journey led him to the great bazaar of the cosmos. Stars hummed, whispering lullabies steeped in ancient gravity. To the right, a nebula veiled in purple fog sold stardust lollipops, while to the left, comets played hopscotch with Saturn’s rings.
“Do cosmos have sleepwalkers too?” he wondered out loud as a passing meteor shower winked at him. Somewhere, a black hole strummed the universe’s heartstrings, and for a brief moment, time tangoed before spinning away in relentless waltz.
The stars, ever silent, twinkled in response to his ponderings. They sang of lock-and-key constellations, celestial maps drawn in the ink of void. It was a song only a sleepwalker could understand—a tune without melody yet rich in the language of light.
“Do the stars dream?” he mused as he passed by the storefront of Luna’s Emporium, where moonbeams were bottled like perfumes. Inside the chiming doors, the walls whispered secrets of cosmic cartography to those who dare listen.
The bazaar of the stars held strange things indeed. A clock whose hands moved backward, a mirror reflecting possible futures, and a vintage rocket ship that played the blues when unmoored. Cyril smiled, for he was home among the Babylonian overhang of eternity and oscillating quasars.
Returning from his nocturnal pilgrimage, Cyril’s heart thumped like a distant drumline heard through the veil of a dream. Whimsyend's pavement gleamed as if it too had traveled lightyears, echoing the lullabies that only cerulean wanderers could hear.
And so, he walked on, ever onward, through the cobbled streets of his terrestrial hometown, where every step echoed with the promise of another stellar lullaby.