The soul, like light, bends and stretches. Each experience a crystalline prism. Each memory infinitesimally alters its trajectory. What colors lie hidden within your beams?
Sometimes, I find myself far from home, yet standing on streets I know in dreams. The buildings whisper secrets of futures lived and not, breaking them gently upon the waves of time.
To weave a tale with threads of starlight may seem hubristic. But perhaps, constellations arise from the humble ravings of a pen, drawing maps of inner universes yet charted.