It was a Tuesday when space decided to nudge me awake—aliens debating over one-shouldered tuxedos while drifting through a wormhole. Such mundane astrophysics, I mused, yet so captivatingly weird.
Why is it that dreaming of brussels sprouts in zero gravity always elicits laughter from the stars? Maybe because they cannot fathom the veggie connection from half a light-year away. Or perhaps they are rooting for the sprouts' slow orbital decay around my culinary ambitions.
Find stellar links here or transcend over there.
Cosmic Revelations: Stars are simply the universe's glitter pen trying to jot down its episodic adventures.
Inner monologue: "Let’s not toe the event horizon, it’s been known to stretch the truth!” Astral memories often leave me pondering why superhero capes never come with gravity-zero instruction manuals.