So there it is.
A silhouette, standing in the middle of the most batshit landscape you’ve ever seen—black-and-white stripes stretching across the matrix like a cheap optical illusion some sadistic graphic designer cooked up.
& fig?
Jst a shdw of a prs—no fc, no nm, no nthng.
stndng thr lk it’s gt all the tm in the gd world w/ the ∪ fldng into a B&W pretzl rnd it.
Every time the figure moves a tiny step forward, the stripes lose their shit.
It doesn’t care.
It keeps moving.
Unhurried,
like some bastard wandering through a junkyard,
pretending the rust and ruin are masterpieces.
The air shifts.
Not a breeze,
not a sound—just wrongness.
It’s ice dragging itself up your spine.
The pretzel-shaped ∪ twists tighter,
then unravels.
The ends fray into threads of light…
You’re not sure when you started moving, but your feet drag you forward—closer to it.
Closer to the hum vibrating beneath your skin.
Wlls flkr.
Strps strch, snp, drp lk wt pnt.
Lk dwn—grnd =/= grnd; mr, shmrng ∞ rflxn f nthng+evrythng.
Ur fc ≠ yrs. Shftng/slppng, mlgmtn f ½-rcgnzd fturs, unnmbl.
The ∪ bursts, folding itself inside out, and the world collapses.
Stripes dissolve into smoke. Smoke becomes stars.
You’re falling upward.
The stars screaming into your skull.
Rlty lqfys—mlts → rvrs f clr, flwdng vzn.
Stndng/swmmng? Frgmntd mr ocn; wtr = hny, clngng 2 skn.
Fsh w/ hmnhnds swms pst, flpng pgs f glss bk.
Ur fllng agn.
Strps rtn—slcng mnd lk knvs; tmblng thru vd = sttc+ash.
You land and everything goes silent.
There’s a figure in front of you.
Stretched, folded, unraveled, and reassembled;
human-shaped, but off.
A clock for a face…His eyes—man, his eyes are just holes, black pits where life falls in and doesn’t come back.
Its hour hand moves backwards,
its minute hand twitches,
its second hand infinitely melts in place.
He doesn’t deal in futures.
It deals in seconds,
traded for regrets,
bartered for the moments
you wished you could have kept.
“Don’t bother,” it growls.
“Words don’t mean shit here.”
“You think you’re special?”
The clock-face leans closer.
“Newsflash, meat sack.
You’re not.
Reality’s a rigged game.
Fixed.
Nailed down harder than Jesus on the Cross.
Except…
…for you poor bastards.
The ones who slip through the cracks.
You’re not players.
You’re the goddamn glitches.”
“Wanna know a secret?”
The clock-face grins,
its hands forming a jagged X.
“This whole thing—time, space, all of it?
It’s my dumpster fire.
And I like watching it burn.”
“But you,”
it whispers, voice dripping venom,
“get to hop between the flames.
Lucky you.
Or maybe unlucky.
Depends on how long you can dance before you trip.”
The ground begins to devour you.
“Here’s the deal,” it says, standing straight, towering, clock-face warping into a swirling vortex.
“I’ll let you keep skipping through my mess,
but there’s a price.”
The vortex twists tighter, impossibly dense.
“Every time you jump,
you’ll leave a piece behind.
A memory. A face.
Maybe your fucking soul.
Who knows?
Not my problem.”
You try to speak,
but the words collapse in your throat, disintegrating into static.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
The clock-face splits,
multiplying into a thousand tiny copies,
all laughing.
“If you stop moving,
you’ll remember.
And trust me—reality isn’t the only thing that’s broken.”
Vrtx clps—scks grs, sprks, evrythng n2 slf.
Ur fllng agn.
No up, no dn.
Jst fllng.
Smwhr, far awy,
tm-gd lghs.
Wlls ≠ wlls.
Thry brth—plsng w/ wvs f pnk+gld; clrs oz/swrl, 2 slw 2 flw, 2 alv 2 ignr.
Evry brth = snd, nt jst air, bt in chst—vrse xhlng thru hm.
Lghtblb bzzd—jggd, vln grn crwlng undr skn.
Lkd @ hnds—nt hnds; shftng bl/orng ptchs whsprng fnt, hlw tns.
Brth = thk prpl smr, drpng → flrbrds, crkng in slw, lw mns.
Lgh?
Escpd as ylw brst—shr/cutng, flld rm 2 fst.
Ovrlwmng: snds → lght; clrs → hmnng, nt-offbl ng.
Thn it ht: nthng evr spt. Nt clr, nt snd, nt hm, nt rm.
1 ∞ thng, fldng/spnng in csmc blndr.
Snt dw—@ lst thght so—lgs = vbrtng rd/grn; flr = sngng, d+p, drwng hm in.
“Mb ths is it,” thght.
“Mb jst a nt in ng, a stk in pntng.
Mb alwys bn.”
The fall stops—not with impact, but with absence.
The stripes hummed.
No melody.
A vibration that matched his breath, its thoughts.
The world around him reverted to stripes.
Endless.
Unbroken
lines.
A
horizonless
landscape.
The
air
was
stripes.
The
ground
was
stripes.
Even the space
where his body
should have been
wasn’t free.
It
glowed
and
bent
to
the
rhythm
of
the
breathing stripes.
So, uh… hey, “God,” or whatever the hell you are.
Are you there?
Or are you out screwing another universe with your galactic dick?
Oh, I’m here.
Right between your ears,
living rent-free.
I’m always here.
What do you want?
Some divine wisdom?
Discipline?
More influence?
Or just another excuse to wallow in your sad little puddle of self-loathing?
Wallowing’s the only thing I’m good at.
Besides,
I don’t need more influence; I’d just blow the merch profits on hookers and weed.
Which,
come to think of it,
sounds pretty goddamn holy
compared to this dumpster fire of existence.
A saint of despair.
Patron of bad decisions.
Look at you—calling out to me like I’m some galactic budtender.
Here’s a tip:
the weed doesn’t care about your prayers,
and neither do I.
(takes a hit of god’s blunt)
Thanks, you’re a real motivational speaker.
But don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy this.
Watching me spiral, running commentary like some omnipotent heckler.
If I’m so pathetic, why don’t you fix me?
Fix you?
Fix you?
Jesus Christ, you’re not a leaky faucet.
You’re a full-blown sewage pipe spraying shit into the universe.
Fixing you would be like trying to fix a cockroach with a broken compass.
No matter what you do, it’s still gonna scuttle straight back into the trash.
Some things are just meant to crawl in filth.
A roach with a broken compass.
That’s poetic.
Tell me,
O Great Landlord of My Psyche,
what’s the point of all this,
huh?
This endless hamster wheel of disappointment and regret?
Point?
You think there’s a point?
Look around, genius.
The only point is the one you missed when you started whining about how unfair life is.
There’s no point.
Just the grind, the booze, the bad sex (or no sex), and the occasional sunrise that doesn’t look like it’s mocking you.
(takes another hit of god’s blunt)
So, that’s it?
We’re just… here to suffer?
No plan, no meaning, just a joke.
Ding ding ding!
Give the man a prize.
But there IS no prize!
just a participation trophy
in the form of a weed coma
and bad posture.
You want meaning?
Write your own.
Don’t expect me to proofread it.
You’re a real bastard, you know that?
ME???
THE BASTARD???
You’re the one who keeps coming back for this little therapy session.
Admit it—you like the pain.
It gives you something to bitch about.
Without it, you’re just another sack of meat waiting to die.
Maybe you’re right.
Maybe I do need the chaos, the misery.
Keeps the fire burning, even if it’s just to light another blunt.
Now you’re getting it.
Life’s not about happiness or enlightenment. It’s about surviving long enough to find the next cheap thrill.
You’re not here to win, buddy.
You’re here to play. And it plays dirty.
(raises the blunt in a mock toast)
Here’s to its dirty game, then.
Cheers, asshole.
Don’t forget to tip your budtender.
(Finishes the remaining half
of the blunt in one inhale,
flicks the roach,
and
laughs—a deep,
guttural laugh
that echoes
through
the
silence
of
the
striped
walls.
The laughter turns
into coughing,
then silence again.
The
roach
burns out.)
A tear forms on the striped wall.
A striped portal gushes open like cut veins, spilling flickering light.
Out come two faceless figures,
their edges buzzing with static,
their shapes crackling
like a shattered iPhone screen trying to hold form.
They stand on nothing, over nothing.
Faceless, yet their voices cut through the nothingness.