In the vast expanse, where the ink of cosmos bleeds, the shards of an ephemeral dream shimmer
like distant echoes of a lost serenade. Beneath the watchful gaze of silent guardians,
a fragment of eternity breathes with the sweet fragrance of starfire.
With delicate fingers, the cosmos weaves a tapestry of
nebulae and supernovae, each thread a tale, each knot a memory.
Here lies the astral manuscript, written across the quiet firmament,
loquacious yet mute, vibrant yet still.
Amid the scattered gleams and glimmers, a lone voyager wanders,
seeking the whispers of the ancients. Their words,
carved in particles of stardust, tell of beginnings and endings,
of epochs and moments, of the infinite and the infinitesimal.