In the silent pause between stars, where the fabric of time stitches the cosmos, each drop whispers an echo of eternity. They fall not as droplets of rain, but as fragments of forgotten galaxies, collecting destiny in their crystalline embrace.
Do the drops know the ocean? Or is it the ocean that dreams of drops, scattered across woven skies? Contemplative, they question their purpose, reflecting the light of distant suns, and in doing so, creating a universe within themselves.
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Beyond the horizon of known, where the whispers turn to songs, lies the truth of our celestial wanderings. Each note a story, each story a universe, and each universe an echo in the hollow of existence.
As the cosmic wind whistles, it carries the tales of worlds unseen, guiding the lost, the seekers of truth, and the bearers of dreams. Here lies the path of drops, tracing the rivers of stars through the vastness of night.