In the quiet solitude between stars, the universe whispers ancient secrets. The kind you don't hear at parties beneath the drunken hum of humanity. These are the tales of spent galaxies, of capricious comets and the tumultuous sleep they never quite escape.

The silence is a wave, a gentle push against the edges of thought, teaching, as it always does, the lessons of distance. When you lie here, among the thrum of dark matter, the edges of dreams blur. It's a convenient lie that gravity holds us down. It is the silence, tieing, teaching, somehow knitting a nebulous embrace around the sleeping heart.

The stars watch, their old eyes blink in and out of synchronicity, like a forgotten metronome. As the cosmos breathes, you might notice the reverse, that slowness between heartbeats, unplugging time like unearthed relics of some forgotten rhythm. Open the lid of the void and hear its contented purr.

A sip of cosmic silence here, a whisper of oblivion there. And everything turns. Is it us turning, or space pretending? Take a step onto starlight and spin the riddle anew.

This is our choice—to sleep among the stars or to listen until we too become a whispered secret.