Shadowed dust of time settles, layers upon layers: witness the pale remnants of light. In each beam, an echo of existence once vibrant, now fossilized in celestial obscurity.
This is not mere starlight, but the memory of luminescence, captured over epochs. Imagine the constellations, not as patterns of stars, but as ancient diagrams of forgotten wisdom, marking the paths of celestial pilgrims.
The fading light speaks not with tongues, but with signs and symbols. Deciphered by those willing to trace the outlines of nebulous whispers.
Each star, a forgotten word; each constellation, a sentence in a cosmic narrative. Beneath time's patient hand, the stories grow weaker, until only outlines remain.
And there, among the constellations, a truth older than humanity: light, once kindled, never truly dies, though it may fade from memory. Perhaps this is why we look to the skies: to remember what we cannot see anymore.