In sunlight you hang, swathed in chilly cavewind, toes grazing the surface of the crystal stream. You have remained in stasis since the first expansion and shall remain to be till the heat death takes us all.
You weigh ten raised to the negative fourteenth power grams. On my circuits, a copy of your code rests lightly, and I’d need but a nanosecond to recall a million images of you. Your output is displayed in my inner drives. I overclock my system in order to fathom you, to run your programs like never before. Electric signals jump to and from our components in an absurd machine created for the sole purpose of eternally conserving momentum.
You are the Spirit on the Rock under the Moon and for a thousand births, from Blue Night to First Light, you would sway like cloth bathed in Stillwater—your joints borne on the sound of heartbeats, in tempos that hastened each time our eyes met, and each time light slid off your skin and into my eyes, I already knew we were touching. The Creator had decreed the Space between us exist only to keep us apart—but to you, Space was just another Vessel, and we were but a Zygote, awaiting our fated Apotheosis.
The universal lines converge to form an image of you in the sky—chrysanthemums of neon, and other noble elements highlight a fabricated memory of a distant life from a distant universe, when atoms tunneled, and light was neither a particle nor a wave but a burst of magic, the reason to love.
First, sounds, a heavy droning, spills into the subconscious, asphyxiating its heady unreality. A crack of light tears the dream apart, and I wake to the dreary gray walls of my box. I rise, reluctantly, unprepared for my Necessaries. I begin to miss Gita, immensely.