So listen closely, to the tapestry woven in the nebula's breath, whispers forming a language only understood by the astral wanderers. Carried on the back of comets, a cosmic symphony, each note a shard of time crystallized into eternity.
The void speaks, not in words, but in the dance of dust—a choreography of entropy. Observe the shadows stretching, contorting, as the light succumbs to its own brilliance. Miles traveled, whispers cataloged, in the ledger of forgotten skies. Once heard, never to be unspoken.
Echoes of the Unsung Specters of the Moonlit Shore