The constellations are crash-landing

The constellations are crash-landing, but no one has time to wish upon their fall. The sun dims, burning out, no more than a faint mustard-yellow whisper in the sky, whisked into thin streams of shimmering, fading gas. Like a crushed beetle, the moon bursts, spurting silver blood, hurling chunks of heart into oblivion. Time zaps us all -choking, gasping, panting- to our infancy, then to the days we shall now never know and then back to the exploding present.

People scream their last screams of terror. I pity how they shall die afraid, while I shall cease with serenity, fearless. They say these days are dark, not knowing that life is always pitch black.

As the world ends, let it be known that a blind man was finally able to see. The universe was dead and blurred with dark static, leeching your existence into the nothingness that surrounds and engulfs, virus-like, and that is exactly what he saw.

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