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This spot spans the world in its entirety
and reaches through time with magnetized appendages,
in such ardent yearning
that it cracks the Earth like an egg and spreads its sorrow
throughout the universe.
And the soil is made rich with memory,
asking not 'Who am I', but 'Where am I now'.
The stars no longer shift through the sky,
and I no longer tell them to.
They are inscribed portraits of heavenly bodies,
and my permanence keeps us here,
stagnant, not moving, at peace, and unlimited.
I will last forever amidst this treaded soil,
unmeasured by days or seasons,
but by the sublime monumentalism of being unbound.
I can only know the stars as they were, but here I exist as I am:
anxious and out of rhythm,
but beautifully alien in all realms of time and dimensions of space,
the rational mirror of the universe and the wide divinity of the cosmos,
in which it becomes clear that the orchestrator is not the nature of the stars themselves or some Otherness,
but the instrument itself deciding to set things in motion or remain infinite.