In the black throat of space, words spiral,
Charred syllables drifting like moths to no flame.
Every book, every prayer, every curse
Finds its way into the bone-dust of stars.
I dream of archives stitched into the dark,
Veins of memory pulsing through nebulae—
All our hands, bloody or tender,
Catalogued in the frost of dead moons,
And liquid methane.
The universe hums like...
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