In the absence of stars, where distance confounds the senses, a whisper lingers. It weaves through the aeons, touching the fabric of dreams, as ancient as time itself. Beneath the pallid lunar glow, one hears the echo of cosmic secrets, trapped in silent eddies.
From the cavernous void, messages etched in quasars bleed like ink from a forgotten quill. They float, coalescing into words—declarations—from voiceless sentinels watching the end of all things. Here lies a mirror, fractured yet true, reflecting the nebulous essence of a darkened cosmos.
Embrace the echo here, for it reverberates through the deserted halls of time.