Once upon a midnight dreary, when the scholars pondered ominously upon the margins of reason, a whisper echoed. It was a lullaby of such irony that only the void, in its infinite wisdom, could sing. "Consider the light," it mused, "is it not a wretched guide leading the wayward soul to salvation... or perhaps, to the edge?"
And so, the great nexus of thought began its dance. An intricate ballet of shadows and whispers, twirling gracefully into the abyss. "Fear not the illumination," cautioned the unseen narrator, "for you are merely a spectator, and the stage is but a mirror of your desires and despairs."
The reflection glimmers with an irony too deep for comprehension. A serenade for the lost, a toast to the quenched thirst of curiosity, with wines aged in barrels of forgotten dreams. The stars, twinkling like misplaced punctuation in the vast tome of the cosmos, bear witness to this satirical odyssey.
Whisper to the Stars