Just…imagine the emptiness of a lifeless planet.

Perhaps it has an atmosphere, but it is incompatible with life as we know it.

It’s just barren rock and toxic seas of liquid metal and winds that whistle and moan over mountains and canyons that no one will ever explore.

Or maybe there’s no atmosphere at all, and it’s just a dead rock endlessly spinning around a distant, burning star in the utter silence of space.

Perhaps this dead planet is sentient, and in its proper motion it tries to attract life, capture a moon or two that might someday harbor those precious carbon based lifeforms that so obliviously send their noise and souls into the depth of space, who mercilessly tease and taunt unlucky planets with the knowledge of their presence, who live and die so rapidly and furiously that one can not help but marvel at the sheer energy possessed by such small creatures.

Maybe this planet is the lone child of a dying star. It watches, helplessly locked in its orbit, as it’s parent goes through its death throes. The low moan of agony, the first sound the planet has heard since it’s formation (aside from the brief impact of asteroids) several billion years ago, that resonates from within the unstable body of its parent in that last moment of life is such a strange thing to the planet.

When the star explodes, the planet is flung from its orbit, from its solar system, from everything that was familiar. It screams, a soundless noise that makes itself known in shed rock and ice, in radiation and geothermal activity that ripples across the planet body as it desperately keeps itself from flying apart. The distance between it and the brilliant corpse of its parent grows. Light dims. The planet begins to cool and then freeze.

There is nothing; no light, no sound. There is only the planet endlessly spinning in the dark.

Alone.

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