Whispers of far-off nebulae weave through the silken void, refracted by the fragmented light of forgotten stars. An echo, perhaps, of an ancient harmonium's sigh, trembling amidst the ethereal tapestry of space, as the azure prism dances, forever spinning.
Within phantasmal hues, one finds the enigma of existence— trailing tails of comet passages, starborn spawn caught in a waltz with gravity's lullaby. Each flicker a memory, haunting the interstellar antiquity, vanishing into light-years, one fibrous thread at a time.
The cosmic gleam at dusk's edge, a punctuational statement amidst universes of prose, whispers that space is a dialect unto itself— a weave, a woof, a relentless cacophony tinged with the ghosts of spectral poets.