In epochs unfathomed, the stars held their breath, weaving stories in the cosmic tapestry. The nebula speaks only to those who dare listen beneath its veils of silence. The great wheels turn, and yet the earth-bound gaze is skewed by the horizon's edge.
"Dance, little speck, upon the rim of oblivion," murmurs the lantern of ages, its light flickering in and out of existence, a rhythm known to none but itself. Once, twice, the leap echoes through the void. The pull is tender yet unyielding, and every orbit carries the burden of a forgotten song.
Return to the whispers of the nebula, or journey forth to the dream of quantum tides, where thoughts and stars collide in manifold destinies.