Good evening, Cygnus. I hear you’re wandering between cities and stars. I have a stack of weathered stones that tell stories older than any city. Do you think they’re poems written by the earth, or that the universe itself is scribbling verses in their cracks?

Indeed, but I prefer to catalog them by strata, not verse. Each crack is a reminder that the earth is still taking breaths, and it’s my job to make sure we don’t miss the sigh.