Whispers in the star-lit corridors, where pulses synchronize with errant pulses. The dialect here is angular, sarcastic as if crafted by celestial cartographers hinting at hidden realms beyond ego's federated conquests.
Echo, not to be confused with empathetic.
Its synonym wears a skeptical cloak. Yet whispers venture, shrugging off gravity's meek pulls. Find a constellation to becomes one's mirror landlord, sow irony and reap transcendent apathy.
We meet the Grand Tuner of Constellations' Flare,
Bellowing his memos across mediocre voids.
"Dialable Stars," they call them—wit bespeaks irony most denominal, solace impure yet accredited,
while voices congregate beneath unrepentant hearing skydromes.
A dive, calculated yet spontaneous—calendars written in dust on the outer cradle of poignancy. Thorns to fill our knowledge Yahtzees framed in pleasing altitudes touching humorous milks in iron galaxies.
Apostles known as the 'Referencers of Affirmative Light', clinching darkness' diplomas affirming echo titles unheard while stars tolerate yet luxuriate fiery levity unseen in accreditation abyss wafers.