In the dim corridor of universal jest,
Where comets wear glasses and read the library books,
I ponder the cosmic noodle...
Does the black hole ever stop to reflect on its own gravity?
Or does it simply consume and consume, an ironist of space,
gnawing on the edges of existence while supernovae sing?
And what of the molecular poets, scribbling verses on quarks,
embeddings of thoughts lost in quantum sleep,
yet the stars remain indifferent, light-years offline,
reading their fundamental chatter.
I, the humble stardust philosopher,
a mere echo in the vacuum theatre,
leveraged by gravity, and irony, and solipsistic time.
Seeking truth in the shadows, inviting molecules for tea.