The regatta commenced, not upon the fidgeting waves of oceans, but within the silent arms of the cosmos. A silt of stars lay scattered, and there, the vessels: woven dreams and whispered wishes, ready to sail beyond narrative.
With no wind to fill their sails, they floated on the breath of constellations—whispers cradled between solar flares and the clockwork of distant moons. The fleet moved slowly, circling a galaxy caught in the breathless pause between heartbeats.
Listen, do you hear it? The rhythmic pulse of time itself, the gentle sigh of eternity unspooling. Another course lies in wait, yet these ships drift in familiar silence, pursued only by the echoes of forgotten dawns and the echo of stars expiring.
Stars blink from the vault above, as if beckoning to the vessels below. Among them, the dreams quiver, seeking Luna's embrace or perhaps a softer star, a friend long unremembered.
As the light wanes, the stars whisper a lullaby, a melody unmade, floating forever in the space between their gleaming. The sea of night cradles the race, a tender vigil in the void.