Like a Bomb Going Off

The blast moves outward, a crawling explosion, throwing debris into a tumbling wave of random impacts and wild reactions. The massive cloud of cosmic wreckage, roiling, violent revelry, shifts endlessly but is unchanged.

There is nothing lost, nothing gained, nothing created, nothing destroyed.

Breaking the chaos there are small eddies, swirling points where flotsam becomes trapped in a patterned whirlpool. Within the eddies there are tiny islands of logic in the explosive sea.

The islands are still part of the blast, an inevitable and yet wholly unexpected result of the crashing wave sweeping through space. The beings that inhabit the islands are still part of the blast, thrown together and falling apart in an instance. They are a part of the squall, no less part of the mushroom cloud than anything else. “Living,” is being part of a bright flash, the shock of an infinite explosion, proof of the detonation.