And they say that a song so sweet could only be sung by a sparrow. You flew in swiftly, singing away so much sweet sorrow. While we did part, there is still tomorrow.
Build a rotating museum on the streets:
This doesn't feel like a collapse.
Collapses have weight. They increase density. Collapses bend spacetime, they pull all around them inside. Collapses suck out the light.
No, my darling. There's no event horizon here. No danger. No terror.
No. This feels like a dispersal. Not an explosion. A drift. The natural order. All things experience an attraction, and then all things fall away, and stand, at the end, alone.
A steady rain of atoms, untouching and untouched. Falling, with no place beneath, into infinity. Infinitely.
No, my love. Explosions produce heat. This is cold. The death of heat. Entropy. The end of all.
The stuff of all things, neither created nor destroyed, and yet nothing is made. All is one, and so everything is nothing.
If there is hope, it is the hope of the random movement, the swerve of Lucretius. Clinamen. Unseeable, unknowable, except in looking back over the path taken, the collisions created. And yet without those collisions, nothing exists.
Let us swerve, my darling. Together or apart. But let us collide.