These bits are slippery, he said, be careful. She held them firm in her mind, careful not to let them slide away. Got ‘em, she said, don’t worry.

How many more can you catch, he asked.
I can catch everything you throw.

He threw one fast and hard.

Information that enters a black hole is lost, maybe. It is gone like the object and never existed after or before.

Is this practice, she chided.
Okay, he said, try this.


That is only nonsense, she said. Or the start of something awful.
It is neither. It is asemic for my heart and the love it holds.
The heart holds no love, she said. It pushes blood around.
That is all, he asked.
That is all.

Try this then, he said, lobbed one wavering in the air and slow. It had heft, she knew, by its arc.

At the fundamental limit of space-time, reality dissolves into grains. Everything you love is a hologram.

I love nothing.

Everything you touch is a hologram.

Put it all in a black hole then, see if I care.
You never exist if I do.
Your words, not mine.

He picked one up and balanced it in his palm. Hold this then.

The black hole in the center of the Milky Way is particular. It only eats 0.01% of the matter around it.

Is that your way of saying it would spit me out? That I’m unpalatable?

It shoots hypervelocity stars into space. It jettisons each one into the emptiness.

Does this also have to do with me?

There is a heat, a convection, around the event horizon. It pushes things away.

I also push things away. This is what you are throwing, she asked.
You jettison me into space.
Oh, sweet Jetsam, you’re soft.

And what is this for, she asked.
It is Schrödinger’s equation.
A wave function.

It is how we say goodbye.