out of the blue

This is the beginning of life: void and without form, pliant and mutable. Yielding to will.

Then the first firmness, a point. Not pointy: a speck. A grain, a salt seed, a kernel of tungsten. One appears, then another, then closer and closer and one-upon-another. They coalesce into constellations, drops of star-water, puddles of light and energy. They sizzle and boil, sputter fire. Fill the atmosphere of the universe.

This is the beginning of life. Or, rather, the roots of what will become life, the rules and whims that govern life and give it shape. Stone wheels circle majestic suns, the timing of invisible gears — the clicking and whirring, celestial and inexorable. On, on, turn again, around and purposeless eon-work. But there is a way of growing in the cracks.

This is the beginning of life, in the cracks abounding.