In epistles carved by pulsars upon the ice of eternity, we seek the echoes of creation's breath. Is there wisdom in the remnants of collapsed suns, or just the silence of a hungry night?
The black holes, relentless in their hunger, weave through the cosmic ballet, unbothered by the brief luminoisty of civilization. We ponder their insatiable appetite: do they devour, or do they create anew from cryptic oblivion?
Much akin to thoughts circling the event horizon, we contemplate what comes after the last whisper of light — the ultimate balance of darkness and unfathomable density. To harvest is to hope; hope is the kindling for endless spiral fates.