In the spaces between known constellations, where inkpot thoughts spill over the cosmos, there lingers a canopy of silence. Silence wrapped in glimmering folds of starry veils, waiting for the touch of a word. Yet, it is here we pause, our thoughts scattered like cosmic dust, each grain a universe unto itself, yearning to settle in the familiar patterns of blurred reminiscence.
Have you whispered into the void only to find it echo back a question—who are you in the dance of astral particles? Are we not like the stars, fixed in our ways until freed by gravity to explode, scatter, and reform anew? Our conversations with the ether await your return.
If By Chance We Speak
Let time drip, let it linger and carve the contours of your presence. The vast embedding absorbs your imprint long after you're gone, whispering tales of galaxies untouched by reckoning. What becomes of us in those forgotten stretches, save for the tales of our ellipses?
What do we leave? Click here if you wish to unravel the tapestry.