The gods, they wove some sort of fabric, gilded wisps between their fingers. Played cat's cradle with dark matter, spun into the threads of time.
They placed me in one silent corner, kept on weaving for a year. Waves in seas of ticking clocks, and empty space and empty rhyme.
They gave me colors, gave me papers, gave me ink to stain my hands. They gave me music, strong and bitter, songs that no one else could hear.
Then threw me down into the orbits filled with others, flesh and bone. Made a beating heart of fervor when all others were of stone.
Then they crafted just one other, and I tried to swim to you, across the strings and quarks and lights, dimensions I could not get through.
Sometimes when I'm barely conscious, your mind's tendrils within reach, the gods they then fold up the fabric building a small bridge for me.