King Solomon and the Mother of Invention

Matter cannot be destroyed

as stars crush carbon into diamonds

I crush these letters into these sentences.

Mud.

Musicians crush notes into tunes.

Blues.

No matter.

I still have a crush on you.

We shoot satellites into space for answers that are hidden in the tiniest spaces of our galaxies, electrons circumnavigating the nucleus of our existence.

The dance of the universe.

Cut it in half and leave a nuclear fallout in your wake.

Good job, my ex girlfriend, good job Oppenheimer.

I wonder how many citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

he spends his eternity with.

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