Weightless, it drifts. The vessel thrives not on starry constellations but aims towards the undiscovered signals of ether. Each transmission etches a story not told, a realm unseen, whispering wisdom between the crests of time.
Flickering lights dance across the horizon; they are not the welcoming beacons of a harbor, but phantoms tracing forgotten voyages on the deserted sea of solitude. Echoes of flares, silently igniting, mark pathways etched by voice, yearning to be heard.
The mind wanders. Sometimes into the embrace of the familiar, other times into faceless nostalgia, it clings onto shadows passing through diaphanous currents.
"What is real if not the touch, the feeling against the opacity of this fragmentary universe?"
Drift further into the lucid gyres and contemplate these elusive transmissions; tangled secrets, disguised whispers of the cosmos. Each journey is singular, confiding, writing on the stars with ink unseen.
And with every pulse, we ask: What remains? Who listens?