Surface of the Sun

“No, I do not want it. But, I can't not have it. No, this is not about foreshadowing, it is about memory.”

Optimistically; I like to pretend that this is the result of time losing relevance. Honestly; it is probably only the mellow whisper of god comforting a mad man.

I wonder if I am ready for another, -another suicide attempt, the thought reminds me -of the time with all the gasoline -of the time with the first editions. All that hard cover science-fiction - lurid dust jackets; crackling, burning. Blooming petals; red, and pink, on a blistering field of flesh adorn crisp, burned, black, irregular patches. Senses have become frozen – I am loosing them one by one. Size and scale succumb to my fever. The sun wounds itself. Dark lines are cracking a crusted scab revealing tender, new, skin that aches to be blistered. All of this is spun forth in a maelstrom of magnetism.

I spy, with my little eye, a shambler sifting around my traps. This shambler, being found well within my stomping grounds, I accost. It's okay. It was just another shadow of the lord of the light. Although; our desires were coincidental, these toughened times paint me unkind, and I offer no solace.

He cut me short to acquiesce, and then, apologize. His stuttered interruption became another epiphany. I could see bright flickers ahead of myself time-wise, future sham-a-lamb a ding dong. Ignoring my advice, he began, with shivering plasma eyes (contrary to his stated intentions) rendering, without abandon, in mind that which should be mine, in my mind, and only mine. I stop to enjoy corrupting the copies.

During some other, boiled marrow, incarceration time I screamed, “Do not look upon me. Never, ever, speak to me.”

I can be observed at all times, particularly when my last name has become my first name. But, then again, no bounds are forever. No thing, not ever, no matter the number of happily forever afters, remains.

When I get out I can not wait for the suns light to finally fade. I want to burn now. It takes eons for the ghost to drift apart.

I am impatient. I've become bored with action, interaction, reaction. I crave solitude. The hands of fate crowd me, even as I try to bring about my own end.

Divine beauty in our universe is just tacky --too overt and obvious. When reflected, in a mortal minds eye, omniscience becomes gaudy. Gods plan; in all of its flashing signs, is a sparkling, narcissistic, eyesore. The poetry, inherent to life, that we find woven into the fabric of all things, is compelling evidence that gods' neon light must be extinguished.

“All life must cease!”

Apocalyptic genocide; -it is not an ethical choice, -it is an absolute aesthetic necessity.

I articulate that the object of my affection, and perhaps adoration, is the aforementioned Heat-Death of the universe. It is a beautiful, cold, pure, yet still unattainable, chill that I can not, will not, wait for. So, I wish to cheat time and entropy. I want to be transported to the surface of the sun.

“Rush onward! Forever praise all that speeds up the night!” I no longer wish to wait for the gears of god to wind down.

“Un-vision a non-time! My particles will be scattered forever!” The order of being has become unfathomable, lost, and once again forgotten.

“Scatter me into the photo-sphere! I; -will come apart, -will not have ever been a part of your part!”

“No, I -I -I -I -I. I do not want to die, on the same world as Hall and Oates! No I can't go for that, no -oh, -oh -oh, no can do.”

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