In the echo chambers of the cosmos, there exists a whisper that travels through threads woven by time and thought. It is here, in the vast outline of dreaming stars, where doodles become cosmic artifacts.
I once sketched a line in the sand
Defined it boldly, an assertion1.
Curved and then splintered into a void,
Only to fade beneath cosmic waves.
Reflect, dear voyager, on the nature of your own scribbles. Are they paths? Canvas-like realms of uncertainty?
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