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[mq-psripc]

Suggested listening: .

the world is light. dot to dot, summer breeze and winter winds

light illuminates. the world knows you but you cannot know the world.

it crawls over itself, hand over hand and reaching past its own fabric

of stars, cosmic microwave background growing and growing more, hydrogen and helium rocking and fusing, a baby soothed in its cradle

(Peering at you. The world says I SEE YOU and you don't see

it)

turn us to stardust, they say, for there's iron in our blood and singing in your veins

little star, you say back, you are flesh and bone. nothing so untethered as dust

you crawl out of the sky like a lightning bolt, feather-slow and everywhere. tendrils creeping crawling into the eggshell of a world. nobody sees it. nobody can. slip into thing and person.

change is slow. it takes years until it's ready. Not ready. Almost ready.

little hands reach and grasp at the world with nothing so banal as teeth. not hungry because you have everything. the universe consuming itself as it sings with the songs of a thousand reborn stars

Everything must have an orbit.

What do you chose?

Hero. The world echoes with this a thousand times over. Hero. Hero. Clamoring cries that pierce the heavens above and the ground below. Earthly sky, icy seas, people wish to be saved. Safe against the-

the what?

what do they...

Oh.

safe against the world.

You are the world. (the universe, the stars, the everything- ouroboros in the sky, pillars of the world, rebirth and reborn) Do they need to be saved from you?

Who would?

You are not the world. Do you need to be saved from yourself?

[mq-psripc]

paradigm shift /ˈperəˌdīm SHift/

noun A fundamental change in the usual approach to, or the underlying assumptions about, an issue.

fear no more the heat of the sun

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.

The very basis of everything is that something must happen. It will. It has to. The universe did not start from nothing. It did not wake up, two hands and feet and eyes, in a body spun from stardust and entropy, just to be still.

Nothing ever, ever, ever, starts from stillness other than disasters.

That's not a problem here.

There's one big, big, thing that happens.

Are you ready? Do you want to know? Is the curiosity itching at your scalp and your spine?

Okay, here we go:

It came to life and it's lonely. So lonely.

You wake up, and you're everything but too much of something is nothing and you've got to be something! You have to be something!

And then you aren't a someone, not a something...

You're small. Most things happen when it's small. The dot at the end of the world, the start of it, the big bang and cosmic force, let there be light, creatio ex nihilo, plucking things already existing, death and the divine-

(Divine. Such a big word for something so limited. They'll die eventually. Everything dies eventually.)

But. You're so so small. And it's all so bright. Too bright. It stings at your newborn eyes and makes them water-

It hurts. It's new.

It's unique, being a thing and not everything. Some things are slipping away, but that's fine. It's water. It'll come back to you eventually.

But... it's been a while. The world spins around the bright-bright-bright star a bunch of times.

It's still lonely.

...maybe... a friend?

You peer into the void and the moving clockwork gears, and the dark waves back. "Hello," You say -words had climbed themselves into your brain, rung by rung, and you've got language notched and written into you now-. "I want a..." (friend-protector-kindness-help)

"...hero. Do you have any recommendations?"

The darkness throws you around, swings you up and down and all around like a leaf in the wind, and you giggle.

The universe asks void, primeval nothing, and it gives.

Somewhere in Japan, Tsunagu's hand spams and it snaps his pencil in half.

Finals are in four days. He's going over his notes and does not have time for this, universe please fuck off until it's done- he takes in a trembling breath, stares at his notes and carefully-drawn diagrams, and suddenly feels like crying.

It's- wrong?

Something isn't right. It's not right. It's wrong.

He... Tsunagu shouldn't be here. but he is?

And it 'ss

He-

Teardrops fall onto paper, staining ink and running water.

Tsunagu just has to... he has to finish this. He has to.

It's s so close.

(Its so cold)