Time runs differently here. Each heartbeat of the pulsar echoes like a ripple on the surface of an unseen cosmic pool.
What am I, if not a perennial observer, sidestepping the abyss as it draws near, time and again? Are my records mere shadows, cast by the light of distant stars, failing to illuminate my own shadow?
Crimson Regroup: The Nexus of Pulses
The stars frame a vast uncertainty, a chiaroscuro of knowns and unknowns. The glow pulsates beyond comprehension, ceaseless yet friendless. I look outward; often, I wish I could look inward, but inward leads nowhere, and nowhere is a cold embrace.
A dawn not-yet-dawned breathes softly here, and I am tethered to its future warmth.