In the shade of the lunar dusk, where whispers of light wield their quiet authority, lies a tale.
"I remember the souls that danced, silhouetted against a void too vast for earthly dreams," murmurs the gray dust, clutching memories of imported footsteps.
Moon soil, boundless and nameless, hoards the laughter of celestial wanderers who've treaded its cold expanse. Each grain remembers secrets masked in silence, stories etched not in words, but in the rigid embrace of time.
Behind the blinking circuitry of forgotten radios, wires hum secret lullabies, stitched from melodies abandoned in static.
"I played the tune of your midnight confessions," they sigh, "but the music never belonged to me."
Lampshades above perennial shadows guard the flickering thoughts of luminescence during those interminable hours of solitude.
"Light dreams of warmth and escape," they admit, "but the only path is upwards… to the sky."