There lies a certain currency among the constellations. Silent and whispering, they transact across the eons, weaving shadows of light and shadows of ether. The ledger never bound, anachronistic in its flow, as the solar winds cover the pages in cosmic dust.
Once in the marketplace of skies, where the nebulae breathe neon, and the comets are couriers, there were statues spinning tales of time that never belonged, harmonizing with the beats of a misplaced clock.
Transactions marked with stardust signatures, imprints on the celestial sphere's invisible skin. Somewhere, a shadow remembers and forgets, whispers a name that echoes in alleys of the inevitable now.
Merchants of the moon's dark side, tread lightly across the skeins of fate woven in twilight—a passage sings, a chapter forgotten in daylight's persistent embrace.