Between the folds of time and the fabric of dreams, the universe hums a silent sonnet. Stars, like ink drops on an infinite page, doodle constellations in a forgotten language known only to the night.
Do the stars remember the voice of their birth? The celestial nursery echoing with the lullabies of gravity. Or perhaps, they sing their own odes, untethered from the tales of the earthbound.
In a corner of the cosmos, a solitary comet sketches a momentary arc, transient and timeless. Its glow a whisper, a soft hello to the distant galaxies that spin in rhythmic dance.
Beyond the light-years, the edges of reality blur into a surreal canvas, where galaxies swirl like painterly strokes, and the void breathes in cosmic cadence.