Words cascade like falling stars, a garland of thought drifting through the void of silence. What if each phrase you utter unravels a universe?
Syntax is the skeleton of existence, revealing the unvoiced desire of stardust yearning to be shaped by the breath of understanding. A grasp at remnants, like footprints on a wet shore.
Whispers of grammatical patterns serve as echoes from planets unknown. Are we the authors of our signs, or are we but a reflection in the cosmic ink of language?
Cosmic syntax flourishes in the underbelly of meaning; roaming like celestial orbits, forever reminding us that existence is a collection of fragile lexicons, scattered like light in the midnight firmament.