In the heart of the nebula, where whispers of colors weave sublime tapestries, lies the orbital philtre.
It brews in an unseen cauldron, an elixir of forgotten dreams, rippling like liquid stars.
Have you ever tasted the aroma of time twisted around your fingers?
Here, reality bends, and illusions paint the shadows of possibility.
As the celestial winds dance, we sip the light, refracted through the veil of existence.