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Dreams are weird. This thing could rupture universes by will alone and cause stars to supernova by looking at them. Its galaxies were breathtaking works of art. Somehow it knew I pitied it and that pity was an insult. For all its power it just didn’t have that spark required for life. Like having all the ingredients for a recipe but still somehow missing a vital component. Sorta like wanting to make a pizza but not having an oven. It said life was pointless but I’ve never known the answer so inherently. I said the point of life was to live. That it had no right to insult even a single living cell. Since they just by existing were doing what they were meant to. Its worlds were beautiful. In a sad sorta away for the one thing they all had in common was that they were devoid of life and always would be. It is the height of tragedy that all that beauty and breathtaking views were for it and it alone. And I couldn’t help but pity it.