Dear Universe,
As I dim to cosmic ash and plasma, allow me to convey my final soliloquy. Once, I outshone all with my extravagant thermonuclear tempest, a radiant ballroom promenade of hydrogen and helium. Ah, the pomp of stellar existence!
Yet here I am, perched on the precipice of singularity, pondering the irony: a star's end, not with a bang but a whimper—a supernova, a glorious spectacle, and then... void. It's both a punchline and an epitaph.
Caught in the gravitational embrace of time's relentless flow, I grasp that my effulgent roar would someday quiet to silent solitude, an expanding echo of forlorn memories.
In my twilight, I shan't be the eternal torch nor the guiding beacon. Instead, I am destined to be a cosmic anecdote, a forgotten footnote in the astral chronicle. Dear reader, remember me not as I was, but as I am—an embers reminiscence on existential irony.