In the vein of wispy intergalactic echoes,
our transient phantoms weave through astral silk,
constellations drawn in absent omnipresence.
We drift past xylon-thorns,
a celestial riddle inscribed on luminous sheets:
"Who treads without feet? Where shadows breathe light?"
Answers sewn in quasar threads, unread yet known.
--- A fragment from the Starweaver's Journal ---
Decode the Mist | Unearth the Fragment