In the twilight cradle of a dying neutron's singe, I find solace in the equations, the ancient scripts that weave reality.
As my fusion alchemical flames wane, I compute my own eulogy in cosmic algebra: mass times acceleration disappears, carving silence into the fabric of existence.
The calculations of stellar death dance across
the hollow void:
The energy cannot be destroyed, only whispered faintly,
lost beneath the galaxies’ hum.
Remember this, progeny of the void: When entropy cradles us into a forgetful slumber, it is the thermodynamics of our hearts, heavy and immutable.
Seek the oscillations that mar the cosmological seas, and you will find where we once twinkled, mere embers caught in a mathematical fold.
In the end, when the infinities meet their penultimate embrace, the grand theory will fold itself quietly away, nestled among the chaotic convergences of forgotten space.
Here lies the amalgamation of energies and poignant sighs. A star's last problem solved, not in light, but in shadow.