you realize you get my stuff now? ALL my stuff. INCLUDING the vanguard gig. yeah, congra-tu-lations, dummy.

yeah, i don’t have to call you ‘prince’ anymore, do i?

i didn't think the cabal would leave the core intact, but... oh, bombs. it’s covered in bombs.

per audacia ad astra.

“what do guardians care about most? the traveler? cookies? the last cit—” something catches her attention as it sweeps by. “no, wait…” she zooms in. enhances. “ROCKETS!”

this world is dead, but life is threatening a return. i don't know when i’ll ever fulfill my purpose, but i know what i am. i’m a ghost haunting the grave of humanity. a ghost with a calling.

enoch bast strode away through the end of the world, carrying his partner to safety.

see the play that commander zavala calls, “an insensitive and disrespectful travesty of a production, with truly abominable prop design—an insult to the art of paper-mâché.”

you’re my favorite. don’t ever forget that.

you have no say in the degradation of your telomeres, but in all the interim, the whole world is your sweet silicate shellfish.

this great, beloved cosmos. always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. a billion electrons taking the path of least resistance.

the world is dead, but there's peace in the mortuary silence. i’m born into this dead world, where dandelions grow up through layers of ash blanketing miles of desolate road.

you are no longer bound by causal closure. your will defeats law.

if the sky and the deep were so different, should not rebirth from darkness to light have made of me something sweet and gentle? don’t bother to answer. we both know already.

my ghost. my heart. you are my heart. you were my heart that i allowed to escape the embrace of my body so that it might know the world.

we wrestled in the garden, in the loam of possibility where nothing existed and everything might. a shadowed agony among the flowers.

i’m a ghost of what i once was—pun intended, thank you very much—but light is light. it still sings, just differently. i’ll work it out, even if there's a great big hole where she should be.

the sky should have reached harder if it wanted us.

“just think, you might have gotten a cookie from the guardian too. but it's all ‘unilateral and extreme violence’ with you. oh, and—happy dawning, by the way… you don't have to say it back.”

reality is a fine flesh, oh general ours. let us feast of it.