In the grand theater of cosmic absurdity, the moon whispers secrets only understood by the untrained ear of a raccoon.
Deep space formations, where the rocks mock the stars, and galaxies play at hide-and-seek with the void.
The irony: humans build telescopes yet remain blind, staring into darkness for answers scribbled in sunlight.
A comet's tail, a signature of celestial bureaucracy — applications pending, in the asteroid belt of indecision.
The universe, a vast ocean of unanswered tweets, echoing through the ages with a silence too loud to comprehend.
Moons, those apathetic sentinels, orbiting in a dance choreographed by gravity, where choreography is a lie.