You are a single column of matter, dense and intact, a flawless surface. Supernovae explode close to you, cosmic rays bombard your body; and yet nothing stirs you. The trembling of your atoms is constant and minimal.

The remnants of cosmic cataclysms deposit over your surface. One atom tells its tale to another, but they do not speak nor do they use words; their voices extend throughout you, their words stretch from dust to surface. Their echoes reach you and shake you to your core; their wisdom plants the seed of your thawing. Your congealed denseness begins to follow the waves of pressure, gravity, energy — from the birth and death of stars and galaxies and black holes.

First, you become elastic bands of liquid darkness. You stretch, bend, flow in one big chunk of yourself. With slow certainty, you deform your self — you drift; you experience the dissolution of being in time. You are still heavy and you bask on your heaviness. Planets cross you and are met with resistance, their gravitational fields disturbed to the point of absolute upheaval.

Their passage accelerates your liquefaction. You are no longer a single river but streams of dark matter. You experiment shapes, you explore dimensions, you penetrate time. You are liquid, liquid, liquid, dripping towards pools of higher gravity; the planets that intersect you are caressed by these flowing long tentacles of you.

A black hole approaches. You become capillaries. Your atoms, connected only by the slightest forces, scream their tales into space and the lightness this brings your existence is like the slightest breath of a lungless animal. Thin, spindly, entropic, meditative, you cuddle existence; you cradle it warmly, filled with love for the dark materials that are still part of you and for the dark matter that is outside you.