In the twilight fabric, a star's whispers linger, woven into the lunar glow. Silence, a symphony of ashen echoes, sings the final decree of stellar hearts.
"Once I soared in cosmic torrents," murmurs the dying luminary, "but now, I surrender to gravity's embrace, my light a memory suspended in time."
Do moons dream? Orbit Dreams. Do stars weave their tales into the ether, or is the void a canvas of forgotten words?
A constellation of thoughts forms, then unravels—a cosmic dance. The celestial poet pens its elegy in quasar ink, an opus to the nebulous night.