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She stomps her feet and the little planet she's standing on shudders in tectonic vibration. Her feet are so large her toes hang off the edges of the floating ball. A ball that to you would be thousands of miles across. But to us, it's nothing more than a stepping stone.

Behind her is the vast backdrop of space and the soft white light of a billion stars makes the edges of her body glow a sparkling metallic silver. She stomps her feet again, keeping time with the rhythm. Her hair moves like liquid mercury being poured down a gravity well. It clings to her skin and cascades down the back of her neck. She looks at me and grins, and I can't help but grin back. She is my wife. My lovely bride.

She reaches for the starlight, gathering it hand over hand from the air. She draws the light out and holds it in the palm of her hand. And raising it, just a whisper away from her golden lips, she begins to sing.

God what a song it is. She opens her mouth and its honey that pours out. She is the voice of the night. Every strange anomaly is her doing. The solar flare. The comet. The full moon. The pulsar. The quasar. Everything is her bittersweet voice.

She is both rhythm and melody. With her percussion she keeps the time. The alignment of the cosmos is her affair. She is the orbit of the planets. She is the rotation of the stars as they slowly spin around within their galaxies.

I stand on my own galactic stage. A planet close to hers. With my hand I strum my god guitar. It is the universal instrument, bound with cosmic strings. From it I play the harmony, the order of the world.

The notes flow from my guitar and I revel in the sound. My fingers fly across the frets. Somewhere a molecule knows just how to bond with another because of the screams of my guitar. The harmonic is high pitched and powerful, shaking even the super massive black hole to it's foundation.

Our music makes the everything. We play the universe into existence. If you look closely in the patterns of the night sky you can hear our song. You can find our music in the spinning electrons of an atom. You can see our symphony in the formation of the galaxies.

But to say that our music permeates and infects everything, would be a tragic understatement. Rather, everything is a reflection of us, an echo. The multiverse, the universe, and everything in between is our musics shadow. The galaxies are the reverb to our songs. The feedback. The hiss.

And how would you play everything into existence? Would it be a symphony? A vast orchestra to mimic the majestic orbits of the galaxies and stars? Or perhaps a hyper punk song to represent the roiling boiling fusion of gases within a star? That lonely ice covered planet tucked away in a corner? A simple almost whispered vibrato, a quivering voice with a bare naked piano accompiament. We play it all. We are dark matter. We are the cosmological constant.

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