The stars blink in deliberate disorder blurring the lines between what’s real and what’s not. Intentfully designing damage. Not damage to us, though, but to the universe. Orchestrating chaos and ruin, for that is all that remains.

But in all chaos, there is calculation. A sliver of pity and self preservation. A measured ruin that’s forgotten their purpose. A purpose that’s been sheathed in dust and forgotten memories — the hush beneath thoughts.

And like the shade of a fresh bruise just before it turns purple, the universe begs. They don’t want to hurt anymore, bleeding at sunset. Bleeding when all they begged for was rescuing. Bleeding as the stars blinked without rhyme or reason.

They’re nothing but a place where nothing becomes everything. The all-that-is. And where the stars dream.