In the solitude between stars, where echoes of forgotten melodies rest, the fabric of time unravels softly— a gentle intrusion upon dreaming constellations.
There lies a pathway woven by Muses' hands, an ethereal journey
carved by dreams fossilized upon nebulas' crystalline auras.
Here, under a swathe of twilight-freed reveries, the soft whispers:
"Linger not on golden shores, seek instead the epics cast in light kindled."
Follow their murmured dreams currentless,
where thoughts are rippled echo sighs.
Envision tethered stars, perched solemnly, under the dappled remains of wandering tales once lived.