Maybe the end of the universe does not lie in an explosion or a hole that breathes black, maybe it is right here where stone benches reside and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children waiting for you to see them, loud enough to mimic the silence loud enough to sound like sorrow. Maybe this is the end of the universeβ cosmic loneliness. The stars are in a bitter drink and the sun lies anywhere but within you and your moonβwhy do they say that? To the moon and back?βyour moon is a rock in your stomach and only the fingers of the almost rain weighs you down on dear, old Earth, washing you off your tears.