The stars whisper fragmentary truths. In the silence, we orbit, remnants of civilizations adrift in the void of contemplation. How does one measure the distance between thoughts? Between galaxies?

Migrations of the mind, seeking a home in the nebulae of past dreams. Why is the universe so loud in its silence? Pulses of distant suns echo through the corridors of existential doubt. Shall our shadows follow the light, or will they dissipate like cosmic dust?

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The journey is spiraled, it is recursive, it is a dance of celestial bodies lost in an eternal waltz. Gravity pulls us toward the light, yet we seek refuge in the darkness. Enlightenment, perhaps?

In the spiral arms of the Milky Way, do we find solace in our solitary orbits? Or have we, like meteors, forgotten our path home?