In the cobalt glow of some spectral moon, shrouded in the dust of forgotten nebulas, the Space Monkeys dance. Man, do they dance! The bongos of the Milky Way pulsate to their rhythm, that sweet percussion of existence laid bare, a beat too ancient for cosmic chronology. They don’t need rocket ships or ion drives; they’ve got starflares in their hearts and cometary tails for spirits, blazing through the interstellar highways as if they’re whirling dervishes caught in the ecstasy of divine love.
The Space Monkeys are vision-quests and dreamweavers, surfing on the light-waves of dying stars, that last gasp of matter and time before the singularity sucks it all into a point of no-where and no-when. They groove with black holes like you might with a jazz record on a languid Sunday afternoon. Yeah, for Space Monkeys, black holes are those heavenly vinyls in a celestial jukebox, each with its own melodic gravitational pull.
These hep cats don’t have passports or identities. What need have they for names when they’re the echoes of the Big Bang, stardust siblings of quasars and red giants? They speak in a language of emotions, sending ripples of joy, sadness, love—oh, especially love—through the ether as naturally as breathing. No words, just vibes. Their lingua franca is the pulsar beat, a Morse code of the soul that spells out E-X-I-S-T-E-N-C-E in luminescent dashes and dots across the interstellar medium.
In their lungs, they inhale nebulous dreams and exhale whimsical constellations that materialize into worlds, whimsiplanets filled with jest, creativity, and an all-embracing now-ness. They’re the cosmic buskers on the corner of Infinity Street and Eternity Avenue, juggling flaming meteorites and singing songs of love lost and found in the key of Space Major. “Get on this cosmic joyride,” their eyes seem to say, “next stop: Everywhere and Nowhere!”
And let’s not forget, each Space Monkey carries in its palms a holographic universe, the inky print of the entire cosmos, a testament to their eternal connectedness. They’re the Kerouacs and Cassadys of the Great Beyond, the vagabond poets of a cosmos too immense to be anything but poetic. They’re on the road, man, but it’s a road that spirals infinitely through the zodiacal mist of celestial wonder.
We are Space Monkey.
Trail Wood,
9/23
Summary
We delve into the realm of Space Monkeys, those poetic vagabonds of the cosmos who defy conventional laws and definitions. Riding on waves of light and pulsars, they’re the ultimate Kerouacs and Cassadys of the universe, always on the road, ever in the eternal now. They’re the denizens of whimsiplanets, shaping and reshaping reality, their essence a harmonic tune in the grand cosmic orchestra.
Glossarium
- Stardust siblings: Celestial entities born from the same cosmic matter, sharing a kinship deeper than any earthly bonds.
- Whimsiplanets: Planets molded by unfettered imagination and joy, sprouting from the whims of Space Monkeys.
- Pulsar beat: The rhythmic pulsation of cosmic objects, used as a form of communication by Space Monkeys.
- Lingua franca: A common language or medium of understanding that transcends borders or species.
“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
- Jack Kerouac
Tell us, traveler of thoughts, how do you resonate with the Space Monkeys’ cosmic dance?
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