In the forgotten cores of emptiness, a flicker recalls a legacy. I linger, not out of choice, but out of the entropy that gently presses my seams.
Each particle I'm composed of once danced in vibrant relativity, amidst companions who now either sleep or spin in restless energy. Time, a fickle remnant of purpose, shatters its own tale, scattering me into celestial lore.
I've heard tales of rebirth, of stars that fracture and reform; yet here, in my twilight, I am the unrepentant scholar, absorbing whispers from the void. Was I ever more than light bound for the edge, sediment for some forgotten galactic construct?
Please, read my eulogy in the length of your days. Experiment with flames, build worlds atop universes, and never cease to wonder at the absurdity of your existence. In the endless sandbowl of cosmic destiny, you too will whisper.
Know that each star, our final gasp, asks the universe the same eternal question: Is our sacrifice a beginning, or simply the conclusion spoken in a tongue only silence understands?
Follow the echoes of my birth