The stars whisper in the quiet darkness, echoes of forgotten stories, erased like chalk on a slate washed by celestial seas. Once there was a kingdom on the moon's dark side, crowned with frost and illuminated by the dance of distant nebulae. Echo Dash spoke of it, encoded in pulses of light and shadow, a palimpsest written by gravity's longing caress.
Amidst chaos, a symphony unfolds, vibrating through the fabric of spacetime; it is the heartbeat of galaxies in their eternal ballet, an orchestra beyond human comprehension. Each note is a world collapsing and rebirthing, a cycle; Whisper Chronicles document their rise and fall.
There is an old legend of the void, a serpent slumbering in dark waters beyond the known realms, swallowing constellations and burping galaxies. How the ancients carved this tale into stone, thinking the cosmos flat as the seas they sailed, not understanding the true shape of dreams.
Remember what was never there. Return to that which never began. The pulse of stars writes and rewrites without author, a scribbler in the limitless night, carving out and in, a mnemonic thread unravelled by the fingers of time. Constellations as words, constellations as white spaces, the beyond a page left blank.