Space algorithms (An exquisite corpse that doesn't taste good)

Heavy the air the spores of my confinement breathe.
That lugubrious and sinister place 
covered with zombie pastry; 
                    they devour reason wherever they lie.
Their cumbersome and savage steps
clinch the 
vacuous channels of the shadows. 
They were not made of darkness but matter that is not matter. It is not.
(It is)
 an extension of the Universe, of its omnipresent arm, eager to suck humanity's ignorance in.
To be seated on stardust, 
                     on a supermassive black hole, absorbing time, light, and sound.
Rendering us remnants of such compression of our bones.
Until the most invisible atom is  
        amused by the pipelines of our extinction. 
How near, how far.
Subject to the goodwill of time worms.
In the end, only the unthinkable and ineffable,
(fragile even) of that manifested
before the perplexed eyes of some of the apathetic
the gaze of others will remain.
The last and utter uncertainty, in (or outside) our
minuscule
and miserable
(lack of) existence.