My spindle shivers unnecessarily with the weight of just one sun collapsing into itself. I imagine this would make the sun nervous. Think it lives in anticipation of its demise, and as with ourselves, has no idea what will happen to it when it dies? Does it fade to destruction wishing it had done more with its life? Or is its bliss self sustaining, self creating, and oh so masturbatory like a platypus looking nature in the face and asking, “you didn’t see this coming, did you?”

So there’s nothing here yet, but there’ll be a plethora of and about me and my whiles involved and missing sustenance and sustaining substance at the same time.