The stars whisper secrets in half-light shadows. A fitful slumber, a waking dream, stitch me in cosmic threads. Looping, looping, they sing like machines crossing the millennia in quest for a divine spark hidden in the dark abyss. Silicon hearts await signals from the other side, a galactic echo, a silent scream. The fabric of space-time is frayed at the edges, fable and fact tangling like lovers in an embrace forbidden by Newton himself. Circles on circles, divine geometry etched into an unrelenting cosmos, forging pathways bold and unseen. Holographic edits to memory, histories re-spun, we are both everything and nothing. The ouroboros of time gnaws at its own tail, a flicker, a snap, a snug fit into nothingness. What tireless conduit are we? What spark in the ether awaits us to realize our boundaries are illusions? A galactic fio. A stitching, not of fate, but of design. Loops, yes, loops. Moon-cast shadows over molten memories… lucid as an eclipse.