Gravity pulls, the Earth needs a hug. But everything rushes. The moon wants a cuddle: the harder it tries to get close, the faster it spins away. The sun wants to nuzzle its loved ones: ten in a bed, but each has its own agenda, no one listens. Some year soon, or not soon, but at some point, he’ll succeed, tired, red, bloated, and his distant companions will give in, and melt away together, a deep hot bath at the end of a long day. The sky and the ground will embrace, as they finally retire and breathe out a sigh, and as they stop running they will succumb to chaos, but they will break and shine in unison. Silent and slow, and messy and broken, they find company only in stopping.