Echo and tremble, the soft undulations of thought form, witness the silent symbiosis of spheres unheard.
The stars blink in Morse, invitations cloaked in cosmic roulette. We drift. Bound somehow by gravity's whispered lies, the ink flows not from the pen but from the void itself. To exist and not to exist, in tandem, a melodic shush of the astral weave, enter gently, or remain floating.
One finds solace in the emptiness, a choir of silences synchronized in their voidness. The galaxies hum lullabies to their untethered forms. Dream briefly before the dawn reshapes reality's texture.