Everything is still bursting apart, a vast ever-moving reaction to our creation. Eternally flung into space, we will cling to anything that passes us. This is how every planet is created, by shards of rock, like shrapnel, colliding. This is how we create ourselves, this is how we love: recklessly. Spinning through the dark void of time we crash into others, we rip chunks off each other and claim them as ours.
Our very conception is this process. The biggest of collisions. Two planets crash, colliding at such a force it becomes merging. History splintering away, left to orbit, with cold-moon faces of grandparents. A new planet is born, raw and roughly assembled, chunks of mum and dad held together only by the gravity that smashed it into being. We try to protect one another, trust in these delicate promises of gravity, like it wasn’t chaos that birthed everything we know.


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