In the absence of light, there dwells a silence. The kind that reverberates through the corridors of time, echoing in the void left by what was and what could never be. The stars, fallen from their heavenly posts, stutter in a dance of cosmic oblivion, yet their lullabies linger, woven into the fabric of the infinite.
Revelation of the Nova: A beacon of destruction, masked in the guise of rebirth. It sings softly, for the world beyond its reach knows not the beauty of its wrath. In its radiant embrace lies the truth—that all creation is bound to disintegrate, to collapse into the elegy of time, sung by voices unseen.
Through the aeons, whispers travel; the lullabies of dying stars, the murmurs of ancient comets. They tell tales of the shadows cast by the light, stories of oblivion written in verses older than the cosmos itself. Yet, what remains after the final note is a silent song, a void that knows no memory.