One is always surprised with the arrival of a temporal paradox. They float into real space on eddies of slight lucidity, accidently breaking through the psychic projections erected around the universe. In they come and everything changes, trees turn from green to sludge, hair becomes a nest of waving tentacles, stars balls of perfect crystalline ice.
A shift is always to be expected, after all the universe is
not infinite despite having no end and such scale invites interlopers. So, when
one is discovered it is best to just sit back and watch, swooping in to calculate
the occasional flux in the flow.
But instead, I watch out from behind my faceplate as one gets
ever closer. My ship drifted somewhere in the void behind me, and before me was
the invisible pull of the temporal rift. I would scream, but whenever I opened
my mouth a fountain of soapy bubbles poured out, coating my visor in a filmy
sheen.
And now I drifted in, and all around bent in anticipation.
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