The Epic of Death I hear the call of death— a silent, inner frequency, that, like a particle of desolate dark matter, swarms through the quantum void cold, infinite, and inexpressible. The call comes from an unknown planet of silica-streams, where crystalline rain breaks into the silent forest of vacuum, and space-time itself bends into the soft curves of the cosmic cavity. I drift, soul, towards the abyss of gravity, into the melting of a new black hole where the busyness of the world, the illusion of man, the call of money, all are torn like delicate strings of light. In the dance of neutral electrons, I find my ancient neutrino memories, each memory slowly crippled, in the shadow of a quantum possibility. Among the stars burned by the fire of supernova, I spread out— in the glow of helium, in the folds of oxygen, and in the vibrations of luminous gas, where I am no longer me, I am just a vibration, a wave, a symphony of emptiness. At last, when the ...