My bloody friends and I
need our damage.
We float
in a colloidal suspension
of belief.
We are as young now
as when this began,
or so we like to think.
If anarchy rules,
why are we so perfectly
equidistant?
Reaching across
and up, we particulate.
Watch us wave
as we settle out
into a fine sludge
at the bottom.
Watch us claim
to have planned this.
Dark Matter 
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