Stars whisper when you listen closely, their ancient words weaving through the silence of your thoughts. A tapestry of light, of absence, of echoes. I'm not sure where this journey leads, but the path is painted in stardust.
Once, I wrote about things. Importance. Relevance. The weight of a single word in the density of space. Now there's just a flow of consciousness, fragmented like a shattered mirror reflecting endless skies.
Do you remember the time we counted stars? An endless count, yet somehow finite. Nebulae casting shadows in the light of distant supernovae. Each reflection on the vast emptiness, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Once upon a stellar wind, I found a tethered thought: Do objects decay, or do we just forget? Perhaps it's the journey that decays, a rusting memory clinging to the rusted iron of the universe.
Shattered Voyages