We are its dream for an instant: stardust remembering itself.

It could be a typo or a creative term.

In the cathedral of night, no roof but scattered light — galaxies spiral like breath from the mouth of silence.

Look up. You are not looking at it — you are the cosmos looking back at itself, awake for a blink between two eternities.

The cosmos does not speak in our small words, yet every atom hums the same original song.