In the beginning, there was the silence of the stars. A soundless whisper across eons,
weaving the fabric of time into intricate dance steps across galaxies. The ancients,
those who became the forgotten hands upon the cosmic wheel, inscribed histories into
the nebulae, drawn from stardust echoes, reaching towards a wisdom older than memory.
A humble vessel, cartographer of moments in celestial tapestries, suspended within
the chronotides, seeking remnants of epochs lost and futures that shed no light.
Behold the spiral arms of isolation cradled in astral lullabies, breathes unseen,
glimpses past epochs weave a cosmic silence.