The whispers fade but linger, like echoes in the cavern of the mind. As you lean into the static, clarity gifts you an impression:
Once, unknown voices spoke of journeys through the shadowed corridors of constellations.
"We've traced the outlines of orbs, distressed amidst cosmic storms," declared the voice, encased in the mist of bygone stars.
The truth skims our shallow understanding, settling into the depths of forgotten meanings. The sea of antennas offers only fragments, whispers beneath tender waves.
"Transmitters of what was, or perhaps of what could still be?" pondered another, positions unclear, long lost.
Each fragment of transmission is a reflection of celestial longing. Interpreted yet ever elusive, they dance perpetually out of reach, like a mirage in the orbital sea.