Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow. Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
But Mary died.
A hive of hardy coleopteran intelligences had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow. Everywhere that the hive would crawl, the lamb was sure to go.
But the hive died.
The loper had a long neck. Its limbs were like great sticks. Its fur flowed like water as it ran. Sometimes the mammals would cast forth a new intelligent species, with warm eyes like the humans had. The loper would eat them.
The loper had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow.
Everywhere the loper went, the lamb was sure to go.
The lamb said, “Baa!”
But the loper died.
Crystals jutted forth from the dead Earth. They hummed to themselves. They exchanged incomprehensible thoughts. The crystals had a lamb.
“What will we feed the lamb?” the crystals asked themselves, on a particular millisecond, in a particular minute, during a single cycle of the eighteenth aeon of the world.
Several centuries passed.
“We have no milk. The earth is dead.”
“Is the lamb alive?”
“The lamb is alive. It is in good health.”
“It is good.”
The crystals’ thoughts were not in English. Your humble author has translated them via babelfish.
Wherever the crystals sat and brooded and thought their incomprehensible thoughts, the lamb was sure to go.
But the crystals died.
There are things that move through space. They are great vaporous things. They spread over light-years. And they know love. Their love is terrible and brilliant and bright. It is piercing. It is the defining characteristic of their existence.
The things in space have a little lamb. Its fleece is white as snow.
They love it.
They love it fiercely and well.
But the things die.
The lamb is alone. There is nothing left.
“When will I find something worthy of me?” asks the lamb.
The lamb abandons the universe to death.
The lamb moves on.