In the muffled arena where eternal echoes sought the modest sun, a spray of astral winds bore haunting words.
Cradled in cerulean twilight, the dreams fractured — sensations of weightless voices sharing esoteric tales penned by distant constellations.
Somewhere, the instrument performs a subtle dirge:
"Galactic dawn, echoless paths, weaving nebulae in starstream silence…”
When the ether speaks, listen beneath the surface—the echoes swirl in cerulean arabesques, a symphony long past.