The stars whisper in the muted echoes, fragments of cosmic tales weaving alien narrative threads. The silence between them breathes expansively, each pause pregnant with multi-lightyear ponderings. One might think they ended there in light, but truth unfurls in shadows across skyward canvases, unseen pigments gently lapping at the shores of perception.

Chasing illusions of proximity, listen closely as nebulous fragments drift, carried by familiar furors of wind, voiced by empty archipelagos of existence. Bound by an absence unbroken, truth and tale mingle— for even silence has an anatomy.

Motionless flutter there, touches upon <> yet unrealized, moonlit ideas refracted in screens aglow with dew of digital vanishingness. Uncharted aesthetic musings resonate in the hollows of solitude-movement, a crooked bookmarking across auroral waves.

When sleep escapes us, pressing celestial eyes to wander, we too become inked stars of stolen breath, tracing paths unbidden over spectral like the constellated veins of desire that once were (to land).