What comes next?

What comes next in this culmination of biohazard, aeons-long cycles of dusty shit and dried piss? An informational redundancy: an avalanche, a cosmic tidal wave, a dam broke loose from the madness of rigid structure where truth does not exist and never did—nor is there proof of a patient mind to ponder it. Unfeeling cycles seeping—Mandelbrot black ooze as fractals of time, mechanical skipping cogs to cosmic shards reaching out with a life-mimicking proboscis, that creeping, inseminating appendage—stretching out fingers as digits to the emotional landscape of this always unknown, rare, strange, isolated thought—yet to remain the alien force always to it: the nervous system, the glands, the pulsing, doomed beat and rushing, pumping of fear as bloody liquid, sanguine—a brain, and all of its cellular, naked excretions before the indifferent celestial bodies. A new babe, the promise of some effort, yet wrapped in fragile, rapidly aging skin. No fruit truly gives forth anything in the grand totality—life as an ephemeral tease of more.

​All outside it—the cold, dark, limitless cavern of hollowness—it sees you as exotic! A monster with countless monstrous, ever-watchful eyes, stumbling forever toward a light—ironically, the flickering multitudes in the ever-escaping light of death. Hidden in irony from it beyond an age, a dimension in hyperbolic glory and parabolic oneness—a lie whispered by so-called masters of time, charlatans at the gates of tulpas, apports, and egregores of machine transfer in nuggets of yield. To make shapes out of this archaic, ancient excrement—products through design, in ironically cancelled-out geometry of this new ontological rejection. Exotic.

​It must become to know, but it never does, eternally disparate and divided from no true cause. Eventually, the kitchen counter and the skin from your beloved dog's ass, long since buried in your once ill-conceived backyard, dry into a parched blend of the same carbon dust—the sacramental cosmic dust. The stuff that we breathe in the air of static stasis—the lingering smell of charred flesh or burnt steak. A star bursts forth in all its narcissism from the cosmic weight of building entropy as information buried away—countless stories. In the end, it is always the same story; and stars, only in their newfound expressive immediacy, express uber-ignorance in unrefined taste—only to explode and again doom our fates in translation. A Möbius strip, the skipping mistranslation, and the story of time. Our gods to remain gigantic and short-sighted in this cosmic, unending loop of return.