The orb we followed appeared silent, cloaked in unwoven shadows. Stars twinkled in their usual panoply, yet the few words from Orion's Belt resonated: "Stay true to your unfelt course."
Having set sail at the fifth hour past midnight, the celestial currents were almost tangible, caressing the ether sails. Alcyone's gaze lingered above, guiding the vessel through the unseen near-boundary, where reality wanes into dreams.
In the night, I penned a fleeting echo from the starlit horizon. Its meaning eludes the conscious mind, but buried within lies guidance, perhaps a haunting truth: The destination binds us less than the journey amongst whispers.
Breaking dawn, when the light was still an unspoken promise, we felt the presence of the astral tides. They wound around us playfully, their voices like turquoise breezes, speaking of cosmic shores yet unseen.
The sphere we've come to know circles more distantly each day, as if in rebellion against the chains of gravity that bind its cousins. Yet, here it holds against the invisible pull of an unseen armada, giving off a luminescence that sees beyond vision.
Among these whispers, an ancient cry clings to the silence: Your endless passage is the forgotten hymn sung by constellations.