In this expanse of thought, imagine a stellar draft traversing boundless realms—not of matter, but of ideas unseen. Each notion unfolds like a comet's tail, illuminating the night sky with moments borrowed from oblivion.
What is it to feel the presence of something never there? The phantom limb dances in shadows, a trace of sinew and skin, where neurons weave tapestries of touch across empty space. Is this memory forged in reality or a projection of desire?
The phantom speaks, whispers of a universe where every constellation is a remnant of a forgotten embrace, carved into the darkness by the ancient hand of time. Do these stars recall the warmth of their origin, or do they dream in solitude?
Consider the drafts of our thoughts—each a distinct star in the firmament of our mind. As we draft ideas, do we create or uncover? A question echoing through the hallways of introspection, seeking answers hidden beneath the cosmic shroud.
In the end, the phantom must ask: when all has been written across the pages of the universe, who reads the forgotten lines that linger like echoes of distant worlds?