“This is bait,” I’m thinking, “this would be the song I’d listen to at the end of the world. There’s no way I’m passing up on rewatching this moment when the time comes.”
When the roiling yellows of that star begin their slow decline to a sleepy red, I’ll be there, stargazing without stars.
And maybe that time is now—maybe this is it. I’ve wiped any awareness of the thermal void that surrounds my battered shell, wiped away the dying cries of that star. And I’m here, with them, for another couple minutes until this song ends.
A fiction maybe, but for whom? Am I, the meatsuit writing visions of a future, living in a fantasy? Or perhaps this whole reality is nothing but the daydream of the processor leaking the last of her energy to see me kiss him one more time.