A distant memory.
A childhood sound.
Na, na, na, na, na, na . . .
But not a fun one.
An endless, jibbering echo of almost nothing.
A small taste of how infinity has a chattering asymptote.
A repeating of barely anything until nothing.
And that’s the core.
This nothing.
Infinite as infinite nothing.
And with all this here: the smirking moon, the stars, a planet, the odd cloud, and a filthy garden of circus games. . .
. . . what could be more hollow than the games, the planet, the firmament, moon, stars and beyond?
A phony set with a barely audible na, na, na humming behind.
Then a striking realization of futility.
Like smoke gone to nowhere.