Barefoot, we walk the ancient stardust paths, tracing whispers of creation in the night sky. Each step echoes cosmic tales, tales of solitude and hollow voids.
Time is but an illusion, unravelled by the yawning of galaxies. Moments cross like shadows upon whispering winds. Threads of destiny interweave silently, binding echoes of forgotten thoughts to the present.
Questions drift in the nebulae, forgotten by the voices who once held them dear. And our voices, plausible dreams stranded in grace, still yearn to understand their songs.