This is where the map ends, where the edges of the world bleed into the white. The Interstice, it’s a quiet sort of chaos, the kind found in the stillness between breaths, a blank page begging for the whisper of something raw and unscripted.
Amidst the cosmic dust and the echoes of spent stars, the Interstice hums with the electric buzz of anticipation, a beat poet’s blank verse, the unplayed chord that throbs in the veins of the night, urging the lonely and the wild to carve their names into the eternity of the unknown.
Here, the journey doesn’t pause; it exhales, sprawling out into the void like an endless, boundless path. This is no mere gap between the chapters of existence but a sacred space where the soul strips down to its stark, essential self, trembling with the ecstasy of the undefined.
Interstice — It is not merely a gap, but a realm where the known and the unknown meet, a space where the boundaries dissolve into the vastness of possibility.
⸱ This space, it was a canvas unstretched, a cosmic jam session waiting for the first note to crash into the silence, where every breath might be the one that starts the universe’s greatest poem ⸱
© tomarowsky