The windswept rock should have harbored the dust of comets, but it instead harbored him.
Had he not planted his mind so firm the dark void may have swept him up and carried him away.
It was bent on renewal.
Renewal he gave it, taking each child of light and releasing it on the waves of the cosmic sea, allowing them to continue on their journey.
This was good, but what was better was his seed, swirling out into the womb of the universe. Taking seductively to the waves and frequencies, and every time it came back to him, whole and perfect, the image of Shekinah, of glory.
The windswept rock should have harbored nothing, but now it harbored him.
The omnipotent generator of something from nothing.