In the great expanse of the night, where silence felt louder than a thunderous uproar, there existed a jest not meant for mortal ears. An echo—ethereal in nature—drifted through the vastness, caught in a dance with unseen forces.
The jest was cast by the stars, a riddle woven in stardust and void. As the echo floated, it mirrored the whispers of galaxies, the laughter of comets streaking through the heavens. "Whisper," it would say, mimicking the calling of faraway worlds, "and be prepared for the jest to unveil."
Once, the jest unfurled before the echo's intangible eyes, revealing a spectacle of cosmic absurdity: moons wearing crowns of ancient myth, planets spinning in choreographed chaos, their rings a resplendent circus of icy wonders. And the echo, it laughed, a hollow laugh resonating like chimes in a celestial breeze.
"Journey to the center," it called, as if daring the brave to follow where light refuses to tread, to trace the paths of invisible currents that guide the dance of worlds.
The jest, a reminder of our transient dance in this infinite ballroom, was a silent jibe at our fleeting attempts to clutch the eternal. Yet, the echo remained, forever unbound, its laughter a serene contradiction in the heart of emptiness.
And so, the echo continued, a witness to all that was, all that is, and all that will never be. "Circle round," it would implore, as the celestial dance persisted, unending and ever so mysterious.
In the end, the jest was simple, a truth wrapped in the absurd—one that whispered of eternity in a voice both hollow and profound.