In the depth where stars dissolve into shadows, the galaxies rotate not in cosmic wonder but in
melancholic whispers. Here, the silence sings songs forgotten by the universe, harmonies once lively
now played in reverse,
September.
Echoes of existence unravel, reflecting upon echoes in a dance too slow to be noticed. Reflect the
reflection, they say, until meaning festers in contradiction. Why do we look forward in a world that
unravels backward? Perhaps the question is the answer we were never meant to ask, a loop entwined with
purpose.
Unsung Songs
Each star here a memory, not of light but of absence. Each absence a galaxy in disguise, waltzing
gently in the dark void. As time trickles backwards, the galaxies writhe in their cosmic shroud, a
spectacle unseen by any observer but the abyss itself.
Echoes of Time