Like whispers through a nebula, the notions drift past twinkling stars that were never formed. Memories, perhaps, of things that could be, or might have been. The air hums with an electric solitude, echoing the untouched aspects of time.
When the clock strikes thirteen, there's an explosion of color, a kaleidoscope of sequences forgotten by the linear minds. They dance in patterns, tracing arcs across the empty canvas of space, whispering secrets to the silence.
The familiar becomes strange; the alien, a comforting presence. You stand at the boundary of all that is known, watching the light trace paths that no feet have traveled but every soul has craved.