Whilst we hurtle through vacuum

A ball of anxiety in your gut. It's been there for longer than the amygdala and the hipocampus could reckon.

Feels like it's pulsing there.
Like a second heartbeat.

Fears and hopes and anxieties pouring out until you're empty.

There's just a pantomime - echo of ripples in your drying pond

Smooth and rough like melted dark chocolate running down a mountain of charcoal -

Stale cigarettes mixed with carpet cleaner -

Snarky daunting sunrolls

     - In my archeological photons

...You could bathe in this moonstorm.

But you won't.