There are whispers at the edges of existence,
echoes from forgotten realms where time flees leaving only shadows.
As the storm of galaxies warps the air,
the fabric of space rends and seesaws dancing gracefully by ancient force.
Within this twilight chaos, the voiceless,
seamless entities waft through like morning haze,
trailing scintillating strands from a loom unthought of, unmade.
Filaments of memory weave themselves into visions,
each a chronicle written in the tongue of nebulae.
And there, caught in the intersection of fate and resolve,
you meet a face not known yet strangely familiar,
its contours dripping peace attained from aeons past,
and it beckons your soul toward the mysterious glow of spiral hopes.
The grasp of light frail, slipping into shadow,
the threads of clarity dissolve into liquid lucidity of dreams told by no other.
The stories, veiled like morning fog, resemble truths or whispers,
mocking yet tender in their embrace of forgotten things.