The diadems are all on a dead star
Ruling over the moon, covered in snow.
Milk lights, paper planets
all ready to burn and bubble at the sight of the red eye. Afloat,
i look out amongst the sea of fallen kings watching the black paint suffocate them to death, taking their reign back and again, until
their emptiness is full. So it can snow in space
             This is:
The end of the whiteness of nothing and the end of nothing itself.