The stars hum quietly as they drift apart, don't they? Like old friends who forgot the way home.
Sometimes, I hear voices in the void—like echoes of dreams left to wander. A cosmic conversation over cups filled with stardust.
Picture this: a lonely satellite, orbiting its own thoughts, pondering the meaning of the pull. And then, a shooting star—an idea captured quickly, before it fades.
"Hello," the nebula whispered, its colors swirling in soft pastels. The planets looked on, unsure how to reply. Such is the tale of the cosmic choir, singing serenades in silence.
There's a rhythm to the universe, a beat beneath the waves of time. Syncopated, like a jazz ensemble in improvisation.
Floating silently. The echoes linger, waiting for someone to listen.