Ziggy traveled for weeks, poking his head out of nebulae and negotiating the spaces between the stars in a sacred slalom. Though the blackness that surrounded him was unspeaking, it also seemed benevolent, and Ziggy felt that he lacked no company as he closed the distance to his goal. He knew the direction of his commute, if not his destination, an emigrant from the corporal world of his home to this blank familiarity. Still, he knew neither the direction nor distance to the Door that had brought him here.
As Ziggy migrated, he found the space around him growing thinner, older, more exhausted, until it seemed to give up entirely. Here there were no more nebulae, no gatherings of gas into stars and planets, no light shows and dark masses of needy gravity. He turned slowly to regard the last fading dregs of the universe behind him, sharing a mutual goodbye before continuing onward through the black. He needed no light to navigate, and none could follow him here.
When Ziggy finally reached the Edge, he continued onward without hesitation. As he stepped through the infinite curtain at the divide he felt no change. Though the blackness never seemed to diminish behind him, he knew that he was still moving, and would soon reach the object of his wandering.
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