Sometimes, the universe feels like a carefully arranged desk. Recklessly scattered across, the stars act as paperweights anchoring our dreams to cosmic desks. Each cubicle of space holding universes akin to realms in cubbyholes of celestial librarians.
In one fold, hidden behind nebulas, lie the manuscripts of the cosmos. Lines etched, details forgotten, or possibly never written. Do distant stars gazing fools interpret their successful intersecting stories as well, or evaluate failures marked by black holes?
And here, another path forks. Realistically, space advances, illuminations marking quantum leap slightest behaviors. Do these cubicles allow us merely to peek, reflect borrowing beams seen decades earlier?