Aithere's Hypnos

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The Universe is never ending. All encompassing. Existense and Non-Existence together.

The universe does not whisper in words — it hums in pulses, in light bending through forgotten ether. Every star is a question, and every black hole, a breath held in silence. We are wanderers tracing the sleep of galaxies, pilgrims of stardust dreaming in the folds of time.

What is space, if not the soft inhale of creation? In the darkness, there is music. In the stillness, motion. The atoms that make you, once danced in the core of suns. Perhaps, we are not meant to understand. Perhaps, we are meant to simply exist.

This ancient whisper gave birth to time itself.

There is no other. Everything is you (the creation)

Somewhere between gravity and dream, between silence and song, Hypnos waits — the being of sleep, cloaked in the glow of distant nebulas. It does not call. It simply watches. Lay down your logic. Wrap yourself in myth. Let time melt into velvet, and drift.

We return to the stars not to escape — but to remember we were never separate. To sleep is to return. To dream is to see.

Aithere's Hypnos