It is said that She was given sight just so The Universe could exist through her perception of it. Stars died and came again to life, corpulent and bursting all over with auroral sunfire, and were given meaning only after falling into The Deeper Well.
There are two holes through Eternity, twin paradoxes both, gasping open first toward Infinity and drowsing closed towards Entropy. She blinked, and The Deeper Well shuddered, impaled upon a nimbus crown of light and held there by the howling dark defining it. Ta’Om, who circled the sky with his mendicant cloak of stars, shattered the vacuum of space as he first whispered her name, thick with the placental breath of his chest.
“She of Many Colors,” he murmured, and the words glossed Her eyes over with nebulas, thick with the phosphorescent nectar of Creation. She blinked again, and The Universe broke into a million ribbons of pain. Prismatic shards laced between Her flesh and His flesh; rainbows and razors on the skin of the Gods, they bled locked together in the perpetual effervescence, in the cyclical twilight, of their passion.
The bloodwine of their lovemaking watered the soil of the Earth, and Mankind first cried out in their shared agony: Ye Gods, why can’t you hear us?
