coma, coma, coma.

there are fractal planes at the edge of space, at the very tip of the hands that creation bore. wormhole fragments split into semicircle tubes, conscious pieces of past and present, locked into each other like venus flytraps. correlated, symmetrical, and perfect in shape. they speak softly, nomads and nuns, in the corners of our mouths. they tell us the truths, like nebulas on their death beds, born to pass without ever knowing purpose or pleasure. there are million, billions, currently swimming through empty black, through empty dreams - spilling into the fabrics of dark, unreachable accents. i've no longer the power, nor the desire, to unfold the mysteries of their being. at the edge of space we'll wait for their signs.