In the silence of forgotten eons, when the sun was but a sparkle in a cosmic ember, there was a fold.
Words echoed in an unseen void, swirling dust of galaxies settling upon celestial parchment.
Time, a detached spectator, watched as the weave of reality unfurled, thread by shimmering thread.
The air thickens with ancient prose, a tapestry of existence woven from voids profound and silence deep.
Each grain of cosmic sand, a syllable in the universe's verses, speaks in tongues lost to the ages.
Here lies a dance of atoms in erratic rhythm, a symphony of vastness orchestrated under a dome of eternity.
Spectra of nebulous light cast through the veils, marking territories known only to dreams—known only to stardust.
Amidst these whispers, the soul finds echoes of an era unencumbered by form or illusion, a solace in the embrace of timelessness.
In the recesses of this cosmic narrative, do whispers remember? Perhaps they merely listen, content to be a part of this enigmatic duality where beginning and end perish in a singular sigh.
Beyond the edge of known worlds, past where light bends and truth dares to venture, the cosmos unfolds—a mystery eternal.