In the vast universe, the birth and death of a galaxy is nothing more than a fleeting, mottled stream of light.

Looking up at the starry sky, there is always a kind of sadness that the ending is already destined. Where will you and I be in a thousand years? Home, the fire of civilization, Earth—all are but a speck of dust in the deep space.

A moment in the stars, a thousand years on earth.

A cicada’s life lasts but an autumn; you and I are both struggling to cross the river.

What lies at the end of deep space?