Step beneath the gossamer veil, where stardust weaves tales in forgotten tongues and the cosmos spills secrets listened by none but benevolent silk-spiders whose webs cradle the twilight.
A promenade upon celestial custard shores, beneath sprawling elliptical arches, silent as gravity's lover, heedless to pathways penned in silver-inked anthems.
They dance—stars—on the fringes of your perception, inant shimmering, eternal echoes grounded by gauze darklings, painter's assistants to mortal (dis)array steps.
An indigo rumor speaks:
The Whispering Blindfold of Night deliberated sans human-lit canvas,
opening veils vibrant in ancient jewel tones unbeknownst to chaperoned wanderers.