, where the self is the only remaining point of reference in an infinite void. The Observer’s Paradox
You carve a message into the ship’s wall. It changes every time you look away. Last line: “We are not the ones being harvested. We are the seed.”
They ask no questions. They offer catalogues of what-ifs: cities made of glass that breathe, oceans that remember names, the taste of light. When I point to the watch, they show me a slow universe where seconds are traded like coins, where patience is currency. When I lift the drawing, they unfold a sky where houses float and gardens orbit, children drawing futures into being with crayons of pure intent.