She asked what the stars murmured when no ears lingered to listen. In the tapestry woven of shadow and light, the cosmic doodles continued, etching stories upon the void.
The eternal silence responded not, for its language was one of absence, a lullaby of forgotten echoes dancing across the astral plane. Through the nebulous haze, one grasped the notion that eternity does not scribble hastily. It contemplates each stroke of starlight with the patience of ages.
In solitude, nestled between constellations, the silence held snapshots of eons, if only silence could speak, it would reveal all—death, life, a cycle unbroken, woven into the stardust of our ephemeral dreams.
And so we ponder: Are we the doodles, or the artists that linger in cosmic margins?