Whispers from the void; nebulae dispersing, gossamer curtains unfurling, a theater of the beyond. Our understanding wanes as great mists morph around dying stars.
What are we, if not stardust contemplating the shimmering air? Pulses of creation singing from these ethereal alcoves nettle my soul, spectra entwined, forever unraveling.
Each nebula carries secrets. The Tarot of celestial bodies, foreteller of correlations obscured, textured like veils of thought desecrated. Fleet-footed locusts upon the Moonrial surface turning to stone:
Do I share this reality with my reflections? Chasing curves in spirals, they mock my existence as I dance in their amorphous orbits.
The spectrometer lingers, analyzing the remnants of what was once whole, now dispersing furiously into the great black abyss:
(interstellar wanderers fading into nothingness)
The final echo: Do we become nebulae when life folds?