Am I not but an echo of the beginning? A furnace of yesterday's dreams, whispering particles as they cascade into oblivion— weaving the cosmic veil, one luminance at a time.
In the ambers of my core, truth lies hidden beneath layer upon layer, like ancient scriptures etched onto the pages of time, waiting for the seeker in the dark void to decipher its glow.
As I flicker, afraid of the eternal silence,
ponder the paradox of my own extinguishment:
Does the end not cradle the beginning?
To cease is to remember—a celestial cycle of rebirth.
Do not mourn my plunge into the cosmic ocean, for from my ashes, others will rise: An unfathomable symphony of dust and a dance of gravity, capturing the stories our orbits once whispered.
Echoes of the Ancients