Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.

A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.

There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.

The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.

Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.

She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.

I wandered through a house of glass—
Where echoes lined the walls—
And every sigh was catalogued
In airless, silent halls—

A ribbon—folded into dusk—
A letter—laced with dust—
A ring—unfastened from a hand—
A vow—reduced to rust—

The floorboards hummed of footsteps hushed—
Of names—no lips would call—
And shadows, draped in tattered lace,
Danced soundless through the hall—

I placed my heart upon a shelf—
Beside a wilted rose—
And watched the evening take its leave—
Where love—unburied—goes.

Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.

The aspens quiver, brittle spines trembling,
a broken orchestra of gold and ache,
her feet carve the earth raw,
mud smears like confession,
the world swallows her,
skin slick with its wet approval.

Here, the sky does not accuse.
It hangs, mute and thick,
secrets buried beneath roots,
writhing like forgotten daughters.
Her smallness presses against the weight,
a quiet scream lodged in her ribs.

The ground hums its absolution,
a Eucharist of dust and decay.
She, unmothered, unfathered,
folds herself into the soil’s indifference,
her anger spilling like blood in the light.

It does not follow
that I am weak
or timid,
shy,
or small

Your logic’s amiss
I’m not swallowing this

It does not follow
that I am cracked
or broken,
rough,
or torn

It’s flawed generation
from any foundation

It does not follow
that I am less
or nether,
base,
or low

I don’t care where we were
-what you try to infer
I prefer
You’d concur
These are non sequitur


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