Across the void, a murmur lingers in the ether, threads woven with nowhere destinations. Whispered notes from the unseen, harmonic palpitations of the silent, tracing elusive trajectories of distant echoes. They beckon through the cosmic tapestry, unseen and unfelt, yet profoundly intimate.
Beneath the soft shadow of a sun that never rises, one finds solitude here and there, alone among the fabric of dreams, calcified in reticent symphonies. They arc and sail, vessels unmanned in the hinterlands of consciousness, charting a course through imponderable seas of time and thought.
When you strain your ears to listen, you hear only fragments, disjointed half-sentences of a cosmic language, a dialect of the stars. It speaks not in words nor in fragments of reason but through the alignment of intentions, a constellation of emotional minima yet eternally expressive.
Hover waves over concave horizons, a dream atop a shadow.
These communications, irregular, bleed into the twilight, merging with light that touches but never clasps memory. And from this expanse arises the query — for even the silences are replete with stories; reverberations anchoring the forgotten, tracing silhouettes in fleeting brilliance.