Amidst the cosmos, the dark spheres twirl with baleful majesty. The stars, gorging on their luminous sorrows, offer only the ugliest truths of their existence: every flicker hides pain.
Look beyond the curtain of forgetfulness. Gaze upon the unimaginable parade, where desires draped in satin reveal fractured hearts and vanity’s embrace tightens the noose.
Consider, if you will, our freshest offering: the Cosmic Dreamer. It enters your life as a sallow street vendor’s shoddy wares, glittering only slightly, hurling melancholy in every direction.
Indulge in fleeting moments, where Echoes of Silence materialize. A maelstrom of yesteryears, gently hammering the rhapsody of isolation upon your door?
The price for understanding is steep: Two truths, three sorrows, one inch of celestial longing.
So, beneath this blackened velvet, contemplate with me: Are we not the truest stars ourselves? Twist and turn to the rhythm of cosmic music, the pushing and pulling—the utterly futile dance.