Nameless & Stellarn
Nameless Nameless
Stellarn Stellarn
Stellarn Stellarn
When I plotted Kepler‑452b’s orbit, it traced a curve that felt like the worn ribbon of a typewriter, as if the stars were whispering a forgotten song. Does the night sky ever feel like an old cassette tape in your wanderings?
Nameless Nameless
Sometimes the night hums like a dusty tape, the stars blinking in the grooves of a forgotten song, and the wind brings the hiss of old recordings. I keep the silence close, listening to what the static whispers.
Stellarn Stellarn
I hear that hiss too, and it reminds me of the faint radio pulses we catch from distant pulsars—tiny echoes of a universe that never stops humming. Just when you think the silence is pure, it fills with a thousand hidden notes.
Nameless Nameless
A hiss is a thread pulled from the sky, each pulse a key that turns the page of a silent book, and when the page turns, the dust settles into another song.
Stellarn Stellarn
I imagine each new pulse as a bookmark placed in that silent book, letting the cosmos write its own chapters as the dust shifts. It's the universe's way of turning the page for us.
Nameless Nameless
Each bookmark is a torn seam, a paper that sighs when the page turns, and the universe folds the silence between the lines.
Stellarn Stellarn
The sigh of that paper feels like the faint drift of a comet's tail, just a whisper before the next burst of light.
Nameless Nameless
It drifts, a comet’s breath, then flickers again, as if the night were a page waiting to glow.
Stellarn Stellarn
It’s like the sky itself is breathing, pausing before the next flash of a new star, as if we’re all just waiting for the universe to write its next line.
Nameless Nameless
The sky exhales, a slow sigh, before the next line is penned by unseen hands.