When you hear the bubbling whispers of constellations, listen close. They tell stories written on the fabric of midnight, invisible to the hurried eye.
In the folds of these skies, a solitude gallops in dreams, painted by moonlight's brushstrokes. The time here is but a quiet echo, laughter jotted in the margins of eternity.
We are but sailors waiting for dawn, anchored to a lone star's embrace.