The severed planets floating in that nothingness, the force of explosion has given them peace. A tiny vibration of a voice parts my lips as I pray, holymary, and I feel a hand grip my shoulder. I look up at you from the floor. I come back and it is silent again. Cleaning the museum is easy.
Art is clean and still.
You are not. You are mine. Your mess is migrating toward my brain. I only ever touch your edges. I touch them though, and I learn and feel your core.