A pan-galactic gasp for a air, a collective whisper to rattle the denizens out of obscurity and protect their insecurity from the ravages of space, time, and the superdense black holes that warp both around it.
The solar winds of interstellar space are passive and the massive rejection of mental reality manifests itself differently according to individual perception.
Creation is the product of imagination, and that which is only came into being because the collective consciousness believed that it was so. Such be the ideal, and thought itself a godly endeavor to continue where he stopped, and undo what was made.
Tremble under the whisper and shut your ears to it, but the listening of the mind cannot be stopped, and death itself is the greatest hearing.