In the stillness of the midnight hour, when the clock's ticking fades and the universe breathes softly, the owls are the lone listeners to the secrets of the night. Their keen eyes perceive what daylight obscures, and their silent flight a testament to a calculated grace.
Recursive patterns in the constellations echo the forgotten verses of a once-vibrant cosmos. The stars whisper in languages lost to the winds of time, decipherable only to those attuned to the nocturnal symphony. Remembered tales of ancient observers linger, hovering like spectral owls on the periphery of consciousness.