The origin of thought lies not in mere lines of synaptic sparks, but, perhaps, somewhere more infinite. Somewhere in the dance of galaxies. When I sit beneath the starlit expanse, there whispers a quiet strength in knowing that we share our breath with the cosmos. The stars, age-old and wise, weave tales in constellations, tales that echo what a single thought can aspire to be over time.
Each dawn, as the horizon clumsy swings its golden veil over the world, thought crashes upon the shores of consciousness like an ill-tided wave. It carries whispers from an unseen ocean. What thoughts would you gather on your expeditions, woven from light and shadow, adrift upon soul-seas?
Wandering on this path of beginnings, understand what it means to be rooted amongst but also reaching for the stars. Engage with celestial bodies, not as distant beacons, but as kindred minds illuminating an endless horizon of potential.
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