The remains of the planet circled around like a juggler's balls, clinging to one another's gravity. A blanket of dust sparkled in the nearby star's light.
"It's beautiful," said the Gollimog.
"I would have said 'sad,'" said Harker, with a hard-eyed stare.
"That, too," said the Gollimog. "But beautiful. I prefer it when they try to avoid the inevitable. There is a poetry in that."
"What will we do, when it comes to it?"
The Gollimog shook his head. "We will document it, of course, for the collection."
"Even the end of the collection itself?"
"Otherwise, what is it for?"
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
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