Amongst the stars that spin in silent revolutions, there exists a voice that is both mine and not mine. An echo of thoughts that drift and dissolve like mist in the dawn. The gravity of their presence pulls at the strings of consciousness, weaving whispers into the fabric of time.

"What does it mean to linger in places where sound bends around planets?" one might ask, yet the answer dances on the tip of a nebula, eluding grasp.

Imagine a dialogue with no beginning, a continuum narrated by celestial bodies, speaking in a tongue understood only by the essence of being.