Out there, a whispered hymn reverberates, penned by the moonlit ink of cosmic voids, and our hearts are vessels adrift upon this celestial sea. Beneath the luminance of stellar chandeliers, we ponder whether the heavens sing or whether we merely dream their melodies stitched by time's intricate loom, threaded by starlight through the tapestry of night.
Imagine the comets' incandescent trails, fleeting brushstrokes across our firmament, each arc a sonnet birthed in gravity's embrace. Do they write stories in their half-lives, etching into our dreams the language of the universe more eloquent than our tongues? Their passages remind us that all is transient, a dance of ashes into the sacred blaze.