Loss. What a fragile thing it is, loss. No more luxury hotels for you. No more steaks for you. No more love and the loss of loving — only a red star remains, gobbling up the joys of the spring that comes after. It sings into the eternal shadow, to all things unbecome. It rocks Earth to sleep, cradling it in its orbital arms. The universe has stitched together the words you left upon it, strung them across the empyrean dunes like the Nazca lines. Now that there is no longer a place for you here, your name is the only song I hear the dawn birds sing.
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