In the hush between stars, where time ceases to adorn itself with certainties, lies a nebula of thoughts—
a gathering not of light but of shadows, woven not from whispers but from paradoxes that sing in quantum chains.
"What is faster than light, yet hangs suspended in eternal twilight?"
The nebula swirls not only in the firmament but also in its memory of itself—an echo within an echo, a loop spinning on the edge of a razor’s blade. Speculations twist and turn like the dying breath of a cosmic serpent, and all is wrapped in velvet folds of silence.
Faint echoes of whispers brush against the soul of the universe, each syllable a dark flame destined to consume yet another particle of perception.