In the beginning...
He sits in the dark, dreaming of worlds that have yet to exist.
Imagining worlds of blue and green, ruled by angry creatures hellbent on destruction--their own and their universe's.
Envisioning gaseous giants, wherein live creatures of light and song. Creatures birthed in storms, and thrive in pressure enough to pass through black holes and into the past. Whose mournful hues lament the tragedy of their lives: that they shall never know touch. That their loves remains ever unconsummated.
Picture barren worlds with minds of their own. Envious of the life they sense pulsing through the light-years. They dream, these rogue planets, of those who might one day call their surfaces 'home'.
He conjures a hundred thousand universes, each with a trillion souls that flare up and die in an instant.
In the dark, in the beginning, He dreams of wonders. And He weeps, for He shall never be counted among them.
The creator? He stands alone.