In the stillness beneath the celestial glimmer, we dance not in pursuit but in serendipitous alignment with the cosmic ebb. Grasping at nebulous futures remains futile, as sand slips quietly through the sieve of existence.
Is the moon a mirrored heart, echoing beats of distant worlds? Each lunar phase, a reminder of cycles ungrasped. Consider the shadows it casts — are they forms or simply illusions of what could never be held?
Thoughts, under the moon's tender embrace, shape themselves into fleeting constellations. They shimmer briefly, whispering truths in languages not our own. Do we understand, or simply yearn to comprehend?