Again, the white pyramid. Floating through space. Time is different here, it pools and splits, creeps and soaks in valleys and binds its way around things no mortal would believe. And so it is, that on this particular day, the white pyramid floats by, having never seen Rassilon’s face yet, just as it should be.
The pyramid sinks into a flow of solar wind and rides it, shoving off in a nimble go toward a strand of promising white stars in the distance.
The man inside blinks once or twice, and snuggles back into sleep, unaware of the stars, the pyramid. Being naked and alone.
Presently, the pyramid bumps against a giant bosom, two rises of taut white marblesque mammaries, candid and fair against the evening of the universe, the setting wink of so many stars, the eyes of the cosmos.
Two hands float down to catch the pyramid before it bounces, cupping, gentling, containing.
Again, he is held to a bosom he could appreciate, if only he were awake.