Among the constellations, where desires scatter like ancient embers, lies the path veiled in cosmic dust.
We walk, oft blinded by the starlight, craving truths that lie suffocated beneath the celestial haze.
The ugliest truth is not the fear of void, but the void of fears unacknowledged, a labyrinth of our forgotten selves.
Where do we walk if not a solitary path mapped by specters of existence? The stars, indifferent witnesses.
Our footprints, transient as the dreams we clutch, whisper stories the galaxies dare not speak.
And there, in that dust, the ugliest truth unmasks itself, not in revelation, but in the relentless passage of time.