Somewhere on the fringes, there's an odyssey waiting. Your sneakers kick up celestial dust as you leave the familiar behind—rusted tools of trade, moss-clad leisure projects, forgotten village fires, and laughter embedded into soil.
This isn't the journey of mythical beasts or towering heroes. No, it's pierced only by the mundane—the echoes of neighborly arguments and coffees spilled in unexpected places. Yet, these small remnants cast you firmly against the cosmos' grand tapestry.
Soon, you will cross fields of nebulae and forget the weight of mortality as gasses swirl somewhere deep in undulating chaos. Star-beacons await your itinerary, entangled endlessly like abandoned cat's cradles.
Why leave when the old paths weave delicate satisfaction? What arid imagery awakens new dreams amidst frescos of darkened night? Remember always—you were told once before: Impossible.
But here's wisdom, etched by trial and time: every star you cross has roots in your evolution. It's kinetic yet static, an impulse to wander entwined with blossomed retrospection.