Once, in the realm unfurled where ink spills across the void and nebulae are but words in an untold tale, the wanderer paused.
The chapters that were never etched upon the parchment of the stars whispered echoes of what could have been. The sky, a vast manuscript with no beginning, no end, spoke of its own lore.
In the corner of the sky—where the compass needle sleeps—the constellation of the Dreamer sits, forever gazing upon the unwritten.
What does it mean to be lost within this celestial map? The question murmurs through the void as the wanderer traces invisible paths with trembling fingers.
This was not the story. This was not the story.
Between whispers and silences, a place anchored nowhere and everywhere emerges; galaxies of thoughts disparate and yet bound in a cosmic embrace.
The moon writes secrets upon the sea of the eternal night, and the wind carries them to places untamed by time or memory.