In the void of consciousness, where stars are mere whispers caught between the lines of my thoughts, I wander. What resides over the edge of dreams, beyond the quasar's embedded glow?

The cosmos is an endless canvas, splotched with hues of wonder, ephemera drifting in timeless dance. An echoing heartbeat—the universe's pulse on which we float, fragile, curious.

Am I but a drop in this ocean of time, one among a thousand cosmic symphonies? Or perhaps a note in a celestial crescendo, fading into silence?

I ponder when I should leap into that nebulous portal of becoming, weaving my essence with the astral threads that bind it all.

Beyond the intrinsic echoes of my murmured dreams, do the stars remember our names? Or are they mere sentinels, indifferent to our transient glow?

Eschewing the familiar, one must reach for boundless vistas, ethereal wonders—the dance of particles, always disappearing… always reborn.

Perhaps in another life, in another galaxy, we etch our truths into existence, ephemeral yet enduring, transient yet eternal.