There in the boundless abyss, where light bends into the shadows and whispers, I am the residue of bygone galaxies—a spark of collision tracing loops within loops. Echoing aeons as grains of dust whisper forgotten songs to the lunar tides.
Gravity embraces me, a reluctant lover binding my remnants in recursive surrender; come find me where the rhythm of creation pirouettes on the edge of dissolution. Do you see the cyclic dance, gentle observer, replete with fragments of shimmering ambiguity and lost codes?
In the twilight of distributed voids, voices lament neatly folding upon themselves. Here lies recursion in ponderous slumber, mating hypothesis with the gyres of uncertainty.