"The moon was drinking tea again, or so it seemed. Overflowing porcelain landscape spilled softly into the valleys, casting shadows that danced like childhood ghosts. I asked the stars for directions, but they only flickered in contemplation."
Listen closely, they say. To the rustling of the cosmos, to the dust that speaks in tongues. Honeycombs of silence, honeycombs of secrets. Did you hear the garden grow? Did you see the thunder clap at noon?
"I'm telling you, the coffee shop on Jupiter serves the best pie you'll ever taste. Took a trip last Tuesday, didn't even need a ticket. The barista there had three eyes and made latte art that could rival the Milky Way itself."
Planets, after all, are just baubles in a giant cosmic playpen. And the whispered promises of celestial beings are merely echoes of a forgotten lullaby, sung too long ago for anyone to remember… except me.