Whispers of the nebula, cotton-threaded across the horizon, narrate in muted rust, their tales carved in starlight's waning breath. Eclipses of memory wade through the vastness, shrouded in the echoes of forgotten orbits.
Cast your gaze upon the dying constellations, their mournful lights an opera in syringa twilight. Chronos drapes these threnodies with veils of cosmic dust, one falling, etching an elegy upon the aeons.
Beneath the pallid dome, stardust lingers on silent lips—words are just echoes of cosmic drama, played upon the celestial harp. Traverse the solemn galaxies, where gravities weep and luminous phantoms dance in marionette shadows.