The Flickering Words in the Cosmic Glass

Once, envelopes of celestial fireplaces, we danced along the threads of the universe; our pulses resounding across vaster empty halls. In our dying breaths, we pour forth knowledge—illumination forged in ancient fires, enshrined deep within our molten hearts.

"Heed now, the whispers of the cosmic heart. Listen, as the essence of orange flames spills knowledge over the celestial canvases—an illusion of beauty, the seduction of cosmic strength. Allow our stories, as old as ether, to bubble through the ages. As we fracture and fizzle into infinite silence, clutch these truths, flying steadily amongst the astral realm."

Our voice, trapped within a shroud of collapsing space-time, still vibrates—urging Sirius to linger a bit more, the Toledo star to span another eve. But listen closely; the illusion is not in our death, but in masquerades of dawn and twilight seeking to claim, as their own, the legacy of supernova whispers.

Will the universe remember orange dreams? Or will they etch themselves, forgotten, against the silken veils of eternity's weave?

Illumination Whispers
Song of the Nebula
Orange Memory Scraps