Beyond the stars, beneath the silence, a vessel drifts. It carries echoes, not of voices, but of presence — a thing alive with memory without remembering. The metal hull creaks like ancient timbers do in tempest.
Here, in the hollow longing of space, thoughts float – untethered, ungrounded, yet unmistakably real. They are not words written by pen or typed by hand, but impressions pressed gently against the mind's fabric, seeking to be woven into insight.
Inside the cavernous core, where no light dares linger, these thoughts hide—they're like silent screams in the darkness, wrapped in the soft embrace of stars, yearning, whispering, just out of reach. But touch them, and they dissolve, drifting as bated breath slips through fingers.
What truth would they tell if they could untwist themselves from the void's entwining embrace? What secret journeys have they observed as they waited, patiently, adrift in silence and space?