Shadows whisper in binary tongues, each constellation a thread in the tapestry of night, weaving stories in static murmurs. Electric storms dance across the mind’s eye, casting shadows on thoughts like constellations etching maps in the darkness. Nebulae converse with a voice like broken radio signals, their messages lost in the cosmic noise.
Beneath the stars, shadows stretch and yawn, swathes of silence interrupted only by the crackle of stardust on the fringes of consciousness. Celestial silence, a paradox, breathing whispers that unravel the fabric of space and time, one thread at a time.
Dreams scatter like remnants of a forgotten melody, echoes of whispers that once spun constellations, now mere shadows in the static haze.