In the infinite hush of the void, a body is born not of flesh but of remembered light. Half silhouette, half supernova, where the dark matter of solitude ruptures and spills molten nebulae. This is no wound; it is the first breath of a universe impatient to exist. Crimson plasma rivers carve scripture across skin that was once night, each luminous tear a galaxy learning its own name. Here the human form becomes the seam where chaos chooses tenderness, where collapse and becoming drink from the same trembling vein. We are all temporary constellations trying to remember how to bleed starlight without apology.