Soon the stars will die, and we'll share the blight as the sky begins to fall. All is as it should be: void, absent, an involuntarily empty end. A final fin, looping back to the beginning while endlessly wishing for completion.

A rain falls to the Earth, turning to snow, followed by the light of infinite stars baptizing it in life-giving recognition even as it kills them ever so slowly. Time stops.

Fix me, World. Phantoms of glistening waters haunt a domain of pilloried bone and ash. We wander here, escaping divine punishments, living for those who know nothing of the weight. We are strangers in a realm of other strangers, manufacturing strangers out of our own strangeness.

Every cycle repeats the fracture. We build meaning from the debris of dead suns, speaking languages invented to describe a home we never had. The ground beneath us breathes in cold rhythm, a heartbeat measured in tectonic sighs and the quiet collapse of horizons. There is a strange comfort in the ruin-a vast, unblinking stillness where nothing is expected and everything is already lost. Yet the ache for a final period remains, a persistent static humming at the edge of perception, begging the silence to make sense of the noise.👁