Deep in its core, there was the sense of something tilting, falling, and a thunderous boom. Flames whirled and billowed wildly, like dust exploding from under a falling tree.
Pinned to the void, the Sun heaved its flaming shoulders, and inside, more things fell.
I heard a song about this once. Not sure how it starts, but I think it goes like this:
He longed to sleep and so he closed his eyes.
The crashing blasts and jangles began to harmonize.
He dreamt a labyrinth. Inside it crept a little worm.
It turned its gaze to him at every labyrinthine turn.
He dreamt of sailing in a boat. He dreamt of reeling out a kite.
But everything he dreamt he dreamt by day, never by night.
He longed to sleep, at least to stretch and turn.
He longed so much, his mouth and eyelashes began to burn.
Gravitons began to melt, their perfect crests and troughs unfurled.
The noise was deafening, and broke the skin between the worlds.
I’m told to wait and pass the time by
singing songs to fickle stars.
With this much Sun and this much mystery,
trust time to find us where we are.