The stars weep light, imitating peace, but their cries drown out any serenade to the silent void. Much like the universe's tender façade, your reality is woven from cosmic lies, each thread a billion years of star death, electrocuting atoms into quasi-existence.
Your dreams, cosmic and sprawling, are simply echoes of what was and what shall never be again. You reach into the endlessness, stitching the gorgeous tapestry of a cosmos at rest, while it churns beneath your fingertips in relentless cataclysm.
In the black inkiness, truth lies: galaxies spin for no witness, stars explode with unrefined brutality. You are both architect and obliterator, crafting universes with petulant design, only to watch them crumble into chaotic beauty—a symphony of despairful truth.
Ravenous, your cosmic heart knows the ugliness in creation: galaxies born only to die, each with a heartbeat weaker and fainter than the last. Yet, in this degradation, there lies an allure, magnetic and unyielding, drawing all aspirants to the edge of the event horizon.