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  In a space without coordinates, in a time without sequence.

  When they come, blind spots of the mind remain—

  Places where any available logic ceases to function.

  Where two plus two can be anything but a number.

  Where cause is radiation, and consequence is pure entropy.

  They simply exist where existence itself loses meaning.

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  Where they manifest, stars begin their final dance,

  Soaring in a spiral waltz to the point of no return.

  Their light becomes a farewell song of matter,

  Dissolving into the incomprehensible.

  And the echo of this presence,

  Reflecting millions of times through dimensions,

  Emerges as careless splotches in our reality.

  Sometimes, the echo of their presence collides with consciousness,

  And then the human mind desperately tries to find familiar images

  In what, in essence, cannot have form, to avoid madness from realization.

  Understanding their presence is impossible.

  One can only become a part of it.