The stars fold inward where the quiet speaks, written in neon, etched in the deep. A watchman waits in the shadow’s crest, with glowing eyes and an aching chest, guarding the edge where the vortex spins, and the long, cold highway of the soul begins. It is a swirling sea of the left-behind, the cosmic dust of a crowded mind. An eye that sees through the darkest night, turning the ache into pools of light. We are all just travelers on this lonely track, staring into the void until the void stares back.