In the unerring search for stability in this capricious cosmos, it is clear: the stars do not care. Yet, care we must, and so we weave tales of their twinkling contradictions. Each glimmer a lie, not in its shimmer but in its promise.
Beneath the satin sheets of celestial mysteries lurk truths more substantial than fiction. The stars whisper secrets, not in words, but in cosmic winks—deliberately vague, serenely indecipherable.
Consider the irony of constellations, mythical peddlers of narratives, stitching fabrications into the sky. And yet, here we stand, earnest and utterly bemused, scribbling our names into the vastness, only to find blackholes devouring them.
Irony drips from every dying star, a plaintive cry unheard, a glimmer of cosmic sarcasm. So we chase, with nets woven from golden desires, phantoms of light—hoping for absolution, finding only an echo. Step lightly, dear dancer.