A billion twinklings, silent screams in the cosmic theatre; witness to eternity’s lunacy. The stars don't whisper in dreams but howl in the cold reality of the void. What does the nebula muse upon when its colors fade to memory? The portal beckons.
They say each star holds a story—a lunatic's yarn spun from the fabric of silk and shadow. Do the tales dream, or is it we who wake in their glow? Sometimes I wonder, in the starlit silence, if our footsteps echo in their luminance as we chase light or merely run in circles.
In this infinite theatre, do we laugh at our folly? Or do the stars weep for the tales left untold? The night spins a web, glistening with forgotten myths, aglow with madness. The moon, a silent witness, paints truth in shades of eclipse.
Remember, the cosmos is a script, written by a hand unseen. Its ink, the dark matter; its pages, the galaxies; its reader, perhaps, you. The stars call softly, their symphony a reminder of what lies beyond the edge of our dreams.