There is a bright red energy at the center of the room and, around it, little sparks of light dance with a luminescent rebellion. You look at that energy and it hurts your eyes, but in a good way. Like sunlight through closed lids.
Red, you know?
The strange thing is that there are other galaxies. So many. You can see them only in periphery - they are vile and strange places where outrage fuels the cells.
Comets don't do shit.
There's all kinds of stuff out there, though - a virtual junkyard amidst the real junk that's supposed to be there. That's twice the amount of junk. Thats a shit-ton of junk.
I'm just saying.
You need to look at the red center and try not to think about the swirling galaxies of angst. The dark, spinning madness that lurks on the edge of everything. You need to believe on some level, in some way, that that energy will, if not protect you, at least give everything a light, pink sheen. A gentle buffing.
You think I can't do it? I have done it. I will do it again, and, when I do, this time I'll understand that time is always in flux and everything is temporary except for the things which are permanent - the ones you should focus on. It's a simple thing to say, it's nearly impossible if you're doing it right, but someone has to do it, and, right now, you're just warming up the rocket boosters and space ain't going nowhere.
Blink twice if you hear me.