The night sky, a vast newspaper floating above our heads, every star a column of cosmic gossip. Come read the astrological headlines: "Earth: Another Year, Another Ozone Hole". The editorial board? Just a group of photons wishing to be seen.
Nobel laureates in absurdity, diving into the depths of the universe with spoons, mixing quarks and quasars in a soup of existential irony. Errors become specters long lodged within the time-space continuum's attic.
And what of the echoes? They bounce around the void, a spectral DJ spinning tracks of unreality. "Unknown Origin," they say, scratching and mixing light from its refractor.
An echo, resilient and unwavering, dances in vacuum, inviting all unseen energies to partake in its silent waltz. Artifacts of Refracted Echoes