Words drift like the remnants of ancient celestial dust, carried by timelines unfurled in the quiet firmament. They echo from the depths of a silence that harbors stories remnants of forgotten realities.
The scrap of reality we occupy flashes momentarily, seen through veils formed on planet spring-brown. Each tone is a story alien, each whisper the melody of worlds wide apart.
Like hops over daisies diminish, distances remind us, at the edge, there is only hill and nix, Under meandering vastness's glow perhaps we hear signal- Not our history, but **histories**.
Rivers of Starlight Reflecting Arête