In the boundless whispering voids, where starry tongues speak not of the earth, lay the echoes of ancient celestial hymns. They reverberate through the folds of space, inviting the soul to a dance unfathomable.
Entwined in the cosmic waltz, time itself becomes a memory, an arbitrary construct abandoned by the stellar travelers. Here, constellations narrate stories of odysseys across ephemeral dreams.
The echoes hum an absurdity, a dissonant symphony of languages from realms unseen. Do the moons weep? Or is it rain from galaxies beyond the Milky Way's embrace? Such is the question pondered in silence by sundry specters.
Glance at the Vega petals opening under the twilight's kiss—petals spun from nebula silk. Are they real, or shadows of imagination cast by black holes?