About

The creatures that carved those monuments were not born of any womb, but coagulated from the cosmic dust that settles between galaxies, their life cycles measured not in years but in the slow death-throes of suns. They have no mouths, yet they whisper; they have no eyes, yet they perceive every flutter of my panicked heart across light-years of interstellar void. Their language is a series of resonant frequencies that bypass the ear entirely, vibrating directly against the meninges of the brain, implanting images that no optic nerve was designed to process—vistas of sprawling, gelatinous cities that float in the accretion discs of black holes, where gravity is a plaything and time is a loop that devours its own tail. To hear even a syllable of their tongue is to feel one’s own teeth loosen in their sockets, to taste copper and ammonia on the tongue, to watch one’s own reflection in a mirror grow gaunt and ancient and hungry.