The fire that licks at the Cosmos like a cats tongue was born in the heart of a Star, it's heat can consume a Planet or drink the dew from a wildflower but it is blind to all this, satisfied to do it's work in ignorance.

The Black-Hole at the Galaxies center can strip Asteroids from their orbits and devour a hundred Universes. It's hunger is terrifying as it's lack of knowlege is bewildering: It can bend light but it does not know it.

A million, million, million Suns sprawl and rage and yet not one of them can calculate their number or measure the distance between one and the other. The miracle of their teeming multitudes escapes them.

The Singularity that is at the foundation of existence is emptied out, it's marvelous powers spent, it's creative energies are now the fragmented pieces of an ever expanding Cosmos. Still, it cannot know the role it has played.

On a tiny World balanced precariously upon the edge of an otherwise ordinary Galaxy Life raises it's eyes to Heaven and dreams crimson dreams, dreams of having and of taking, dreams of doing and of wanting: Forbidden Dreams.

If this delicate, weird thing perishes, whether by some catastrophe or by it's own hand, the Universe will never know: The stupid Suns and senseless Planets will simply continue their mad rush toward entropy and heat-death.

While Life will burn or freeze or starve and the sound of it's passing will drift among the Mountains of Eternity and then fall silent so that everything can become nothing once again and the fountains of Creation will run dry.

It was Man that struggled briefly and then faded away into an insoluble, troubling obscurity or at least, I think that was the name...




© W.G. Myers