LynxVII

I made her an espresso shot. Thick, foamy crema but the grounds were old and made it bitter. She told me, all she did was talk. A lot. I had a glass of orange juice to hide the taste. Parsecs are millions of miles of seconds and we're living on the redline. We're decelerating at the rate of pernicious astrophysical dimming. We're relativistic degenerates chasing quinta essentia with t-shirts made of spacetime fabric. She said it felt like something was folding inside her, making creases.