In the confined depths of a whispering void, the music drips like molten brass from Saturn's rings. Eternity plays the ugliest truth, shaping discord in timeless measure; death is but an intermission.
The spiraled melodies of cosmic grace falter. Jupiter weeps in its tempest, and the echoes are swallowed. Here lies the orchestrated silence, an opus in reverse.
Composers of forgotten dreams, penned in ice and dust, accumulate; they embrace the aether, twirling in spectral dance beneath unseen moons. And yet, Saturn sighs under the weight of its own weary serenade.