There, just there, on the outskirts of what we perceive as all of reality, unfathomable even to the imagination of the most gifted child, beyond the farthest star we know, across the cosmic chasms and the treacherous black holes of the unknown universe, swirling with the ravenous hunger and force of a million thrashing mouths, emanating a hum so all-engulfing and deafening our human ears would bleed to the sound, lies the force from which we sprung. The seed from which we grew. From there a current shrieks through the cosmos, piercing everything. Pulsating and vibrating, strumming and humming, throbbing and screaming, as gleaming claws of tainted sound it reaches. Far. And farther still. Even here it can be heard, as the deep echo of our own beating heart when we close our eyes.
Tug. Tug at my heartstrings, fiddler's fingers from beyond the stars. Tug and strum and play my weak and fragile body as your own delicate instrument. Let me play for you the most haunting music, a song of distant and long since burnt out stars. Let my heartbeat and voice form the most exquisite sounds imaginable. No bird ever tweeted so sweetly. No lion ever roared as mightily. No storm ever shook the earth more violently. No warm gale ever caressed the trees more delicately. I tremble at your touch. My skin itches and aches with the delight and devastation your invisible fingers inflict.
There, just there, on the outskirts of what we perceive as all of reality, you sing back at me.