# It Doesn't Matter It doesn't matter if the sky falls, or if the earth beneath our feet gives way— we'll go on walking, you and I, through the rubble of what was, collecting the small stones that once were stars. It doesn't matter if the words we spoke dissolve like sugar in the rain, if every promise turns to ash, if silence becomes our only language— we learned long ago to hear the music in the dark. It doesn't matter if the clock stops, if tomorrow never comes, if we're forgotten by the world that spins its indifferent wheel— we were real once, in this moment, burning like brief candles in an endless night. It doesn't matter if no one remembers, if our names fade from every page, if the river carries away all trace of us— something survives that cannot be named, something that returns like the spring, like breath, like the stubborn bloom of a single flower pushing through concrete. So let the heavens crack and weep, let the mountains crumble into dust, let the sea forget its ancient song— we will still be here, still reaching, still finding light in the smallest, most ordinary things. Because it doesn't matter. And because it matters most of all.