In the stillness, there are whispers—the universe is never silent, yet in its vast slumber, it dreams of voids. Black holes, they say, are the snickers of the cosmos. Ever expanding, ever contracting; a pulsating heart, or perhaps a wound that never heals. Beyond the event horizon, time forgets itself, and space is a mere afterthought.
Sleep, oh cosmic leviathan, for the galaxy spins tales in your absence. Nebulae sigh, and comets weep. Matter, antimatter, and that which no one dares to name. The universe fabricates, then unravels—a tapestry woven with threads of spacetime dreams. The question remains, how do dreams of such enormity wake?
Gravity pulls at the seams of logic, stitching together theories that unravel at the touch of realization. And yet, the fabric of reality holds its course, indifferent to the musings of mere flesh and bone. In the blackness, a lullaby of physics plays on repeat, a ceaseless symphony of silence.