In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, where stars are but glistening whispers of forgotten tales, there echoes a murmur—a gentle susurration that winds through the astral realms, caressing the edges of empty voids with velvet fingers. Here, amidst the luminescent swirls of gaseous dreams, a symphony of silence reigns, punctuated only by the heartbeats of distant suns.
Beneath the weight of cerulean burdens, amidst clouds spun of opalescent whims, lie the murmurs—shy and soft, like a breath upon the neck of night. They speak of ancient wanderers, souls adrift amidst the star-kissed ether, seeking solace on the wretched shores of solitude. Each note a gravity well, drawing emotion from the heavens and binding it within the heart of the wandering nebula.
The orbs of radiant light above, they listen. They listen for stories untold, for name-laden verses of ethereal tapestries entwined with cosmic dance. And in return, they weep their incandescent tears, which cascade like celestial rain upon the aching earth, draping it in a shroud of forgotten echoes and luminous grace.