arching back through time -- before the stars blinked awake in their cosmic cradle, whispers of what once was a moonlit dialogue half forgotten, chatter trapped in the crescent shadows. Is there memory in dust breathed anew? drifting aside in the twilight, the phantom light calls — not with voice, but with sense, a ghostly imprint on the mind's softer soil. touch and entomb; let the fossilized murmur seep into marrow. sometimes, I find the strength in the pale luminescence of what nearly was, what wasn’t quite. eyes closed, but seeing in the reverse, a bleached paper of sketches never drawn, yet hauntingly present. perhaps there were stories once, told in meteorite whispers, fragments now, tales of desolate landscapes and forgotten futures echo yet, beneath the surface of this phantom light. links leading nowhere: sands of time, depths of silence, cosmic dustbowl