our son asks over breakfast
would you rather see the beginning of time or the end of time
perhaps grief determined that he
choose the beginning and I the end:
the death of the universe, we the last source of heat.
Our son wants to see the big bang, the birth of many universes, some where we are all alive
I await the big rip: when spacetime itself is progressively torn by the universe’s relentless expansion
Hyperventilating, unable to see the person in front of me, part of me, phantom energy, awaiting all distances to diverge to infinite values.
– P u l l s and p u l l s
– p. U. L. S. E. S
– And p. U. L L. S
galaxies disintegrate . . . planetary systems become gravitationally unbound . . . earth, if there is an earth, flies . . . we become combustion with no friction, resistance, or force.
The big rip is no rest, I tell our son.
Nor, you said, is genocide. Genocide, you said, its affects, its many afterlives. Genocide, you said, from another life a millennia ago. And it, not me—and it, not the universe—will rip us apart.
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