The nebula whispers in my ear tonight, a clandestine waltz of cosmic dust binding with breath. Here I sit, perched atop newfound astral plains, where time becomes but a soft echo.
The stars, indifferent and distant, hum their eternal lullabies. They don't care if I reach them with thoughts unspoken, but there they are, tending their flickering chores in the dome above.
Memory has lost its grip as I drift; I weigh heavier on the ether than on earth, suspended in this moment forever. Was there a beginning? Or an end? Perhaps a beginning of an end that forgot itself? The physical laws pause here, weaving through neural gateways like strands of an unmatched violin.
I am an island of whispers in an ocean of silence, veiled by skies woven with fractured light. I peer into a mirror of forgotten futures, realizing that I am both the observer and the dissipating nebula.
Echoes of a forgotten dawn cycle through my fibers; they sing not of sorrow, but an enigmatic joy—the kind that emerges when light plays with shadows in a ballet unmeasured by human hands.
And thus, I glide onwards, a reverie beneath sepulchered stars...finding solace in wandering through the cosmic whispers.
Reflecting on Mirrors