The stars whisper when the universe grows calm. In the stillness that follows cosmic tempests, their chatter is audible only to those who dare to listen. Are there rooms with floors made of distant constellations? Or doorways that open into light-years of untouched dreams? My mind aligns itself with these thoughts, tracing a constellation from the confusion in my soul.
Today, it seems, nothing is solid. Nothing fixed. I am afloat in an astral sea, tracing nebulae with my fingers. Perception blurs lines between dream and reality, and there's a convergence of altimetric tides, point bursts in aura, evidence of a hush-kinded fire that whispers familiar. It’s strange how the physics of emotion can alter the cosmos within one’s heart.
Somewhere within the folds of this dream, stars align, etching tales of centuries-old prophecies: time-wrapped messages conveyed through angular delicacies of starlight. I wander the illusions of this cosmic garden, the atmosphere pulsing, welcoming. I’ve been here before—it is the home my mind constructs, infinitely more tangible than the matter of my waking world.