Sunset Limited
I believe in Sunset Limited
- Jul 29, 2019
- 1,397
I don't know why L'absent is banned, if he's still alive, or if he's reading this. There's no other writer who can combine literary depth and philosophical consistency so skillfully and wisely. His sentences are like a genius expressing a mathematical equation in the shortest and most perfect way. His words are like the synthesis of centuries of experience. After reading him, I don't need anything more.
For those who, like me, enjoy nihilistic literature, I've decided to gather his threads under one heading. Respect...
- The Cathedral of the Wind -
The substance of being corrodes, disintegrating into infinitesimal particles suspended in the aridity of a desert that acknowledges neither past nor future. Here, in the mute expanse of Fuerteventura, where the earth curls under the weight of an unrelenting sun, every pretense of meaning dissolves like salt licked away by the tide.
I am what remains after the shipwreck of illusions, the voice that seeps through the cracks in the stone, the muffled lament of a god imploded within its own void. I have neither body nor face, yet I exist in the echo of every thought that buckles under the weight of its own senselessness. No name could contain me, for I am the indistinct, the shadow without origin, the whisper of eternal dissipation.
Man advances, convinced that he carves a furrow in time, yet he leaves nothing but brittle footprints, devoured by the wind before he can even recognize them. What remains of his flesh, if not dust? What remains of his hopes, if not the reflection of a light already extinguished? Life is neither a gift nor a promise: it is a flicker that vanishes before it can be understood, a claw that carves only to disappear, leaving behind nothing but the mutilation of the futile.
The sky stretches like a canvas of obsidian, indifferent to the convulsions of those who yearn for meaning. Here, among rocks eroded by time, every prayer crashes against the void, crumbling into silence like a breath of ash. There is no judgment, no redemption. Only the perpetual unraveling, the irreversible collapse of every human construct, the slow annihilation of will.
And yet, man persists in believing in his own permanence, clinging to symbols, names, memories, like a blind man grasping at emptiness, convinced he holds the light. But I know the truth: every echo is destined to fade, every gaze to vanish, every word to dissolve into the inexistence from which it was born. For nothing can withstand oblivion, nothing escapes the quiet catastrophe of time.
I have seen it happen a thousand times. I have seen men kneel on these sands, searching for answers where only silence dwells. I have seen their mouths twist into pleas with no recipient, their eyes flailing in search of a light that will never come. And in the end, I have seen them surrender, swallowed by the same void that created them.
There is nothing beyond this awareness. No epiphany, no salvation. Only the perpetual slide into nothingness, the extinction of all meaning, the end of everything before it can ever truly be.
So why fear what is already inscribed in the breath of creation itself? Why resist the inevitable when the only truth is annihilation?
I am the wind that erases every trace. I am the voice that proclaims the futility of every step, the guardian of an altar that bears no promise. Listen to me, and let the void embrace you as the only sincere touch you will ever know.
- Survival Manual for Desperate Optimists -
Humanity has spent millennia convincing itself that life has value, meaning, and direction. It has built cathedrals, empires, philosophies, and entire scientific disciplines to justify its existence, to ennoble its chaotic march toward inevitable dissolution. But the truth is that life is nothing more than a biochemical accident, a collective delusion imbued with meaning only because the alternative—the void—is too terrifying to accept.
Look at them: waking up every morning, dragging themselves out of bed, facing traffic and meetings to sustain a system that swallowed them at birth and will return them to oblivion without so much as a thank you. They struggle for careers no one will remember, build relationships doomed to decay, produce children who will repeat the same cycle of self-deception. They are prisoners in a cage without bars, where the sentence is consciousness and the executioner is hope.
Every era has sought its antidote to nihilism: God, Reason, Progress, Love, Family, Productivity. Yet, none of these substitutes have ever withstood the weight of reality. There is no ultimate purpose, only an absurd prolongation of existence in increasingly sophisticated forms, disguised as virtue, personal growth, or societal improvement. It is the philosophical equivalent of repainting the façade of a building doomed for demolition—a distraction to avoid admitting that beneath the surface, everything rots.
But do not worry, there is always room for the ridiculous. The optimists—those cheerful vendors of existential smoke—will tell you that life is beautiful, that it is worth living, that every moment is an opportunity. These are the same people who applaud marriages doomed from the start, who praise hard work while billionaires thrive on their backs, who post motivational quotes while crying in traffic or swallowing pills to get through another day. And yet, they insist: "Be positive!"—as if the problem were perception and not the condition of existence itself.
Life is not a blessing; it is a sentence with excellent marketing. We are taught to fear death, but no one tells us that the real horror is the slow process of living, the dilution of being into a routine devoid of purpose, the absurdity of accumulating experiences, money, and status only to be forgotten by a world that will keep spinning with the same cosmic indifference as always.
So, what remedy remains? None. Suicide is too theatrical a gesture for such a mediocre stage, and survival is merely a matter of inertia. The only option is to enjoy the spectacle with a touch of irony, to laugh at the farce, to embrace the nonsense, to play with the system without deluding oneself that it has any meaning. The awareness of nothingness is the last form of freedom left. Because in the end, if we must perform in this comedy, we might as well do it with style. And if you truly can't bear this farce any longer, then it's better to drop the curtain for good.
- Fred and the Theater of Daily Absurdity -
Fred sat on a park bench, watching the depressing spectacle of human life unfolding before his eyes with the same grace as an egg smashing onto concrete.
Here comes a guy in a suit, walking briskly, his phone glued to his ear like a post-evolutionary appendage. He's passionately discussing business strategies, KPIs, and "creating value." Fred wonders if this man has ever realized that his existence is just an endless loop of useless meetings designed to generate money he'll never have time to spend, while his body slowly rots in an ergonomic office chair.
A little further, a couple is arguing about who gets to choose the movie for the night. "We need to find something we both like," she says, as if watching a movie were some profound existential act. Fred wonders—why worry so much about picking the "right" thing when, in the end, everything is just another illusion to fill the time before decomposition?
Then there's an influencer recording a video, passionately preaching about how important it is to "believe in yourself and never give up." Fred smirks. It's astonishing how desperately humans cling to their own insignificance, like a fly convinced it can escape a glue trap with the sheer power of positive thinking.
And of course, the cyclist in his aerodynamic suit, pedaling as if time were currency and he needed to save every second. To go where, exactly? Toward a grave in better shape than the others?
Fred shakes his head and gets up, fully aware that everyone around him is an unknowing actor in a play that never had a script or an ending worth watching. The world keeps spinning, driven by blind inertia, while everyone pretends they have a role to play.
Fred walks away laughing—because he knows, in the end, there's no one watching the show.
- The Illusion of Consciousness: The Brain as a Prison of Nothingness -
The human brain is a failed experiment of nature, a lump of damp flesh that believes itself to be a deity. A malfunctioning device, a system error that, instead of executing simple biological commands, has convinced itself that it is something more—that it has a soul, a purpose, a value. The truth? You are nothing but a chemical accident, a cluster of nerve cells obsessed with its own reflection, a parasite desperately trying to forget its insignificance while the universe grinds it down without even noticing.
But don't worry, you'll never suffer enough to truly understand it. Because your brain is a perfect magician, a cheap illusionist trapping you in a mediocre script without ever showing you the empty audience. It will make you believe you have goals, ambitions, passions, and when the weight of absurdity starts to sink in, when a crack appears in the facade, it will already be there to stitch it back together with fresh lies. It will throw you into the arms of love, career, family, hope—any placebo strong enough to distract you from the fact that you are nothing more than a frightened ape on a rock floating through nothingness.
And the most pathetic part? You like it. You like believing you are special, that you have a destiny, that you matter. You like looking in the mirror and thinking there is something unique about your existence. But the reality is that you are nothing more than a pawn in a game that no one is playing. Your body is programmed to endure, to seek meaning everywhere because if you truly saw the void for what it is, you would stop moving, stop speaking, stop existing. Your brain cannot allow that. It does not want the truth. It only wants to keep you functional, like a machine that must never realize it is broken.
And even if, for a single moment, just one, you managed to see beyond the curtain—if you realized that every emotion is merely the result of a chemical reaction, that your love, your pain, your fear are nothing more than electrical impulses with no real meaning—do you know what would happen? Your brain would pull you back. It would tell you to be strong, to look ahead, to believe that there is still something worth living for. It would drag you back into illusion, into deception, into the gilded cage you call existence.
And you will let it. Because nothingness is unbearable, but the lie is comforting.
- The Prison Illusion: A Society That Punishes to Avoid Responsibility -
Prison is not justice; it is a collective illusion, the fetish of a society incapable of looking in the mirror. It is the symptom of a culture that prefers to punish rather than understand, repress rather than transform, seek revenge rather than heal. Every prison cell built is a monument to the hypocrisy of those who pretend to fight crime without ever questioning why it exists. Prison is nothing more than a giant social dumpster, a place where society dumps those it has already condemned to failure, then deludes itself into believing the problem is solved.
But does anyone really believe that crime is an isolated act? Can we truly reduce guilt to a single individual, as if they were born in a vacuum, without history, without environment, without conditioning? As if their crime were a bolt from the blue, an inexplicable anomaly to be eradicated? The truth is that prison was never meant to solve crime—it exists to obscure its causes. It serves only to reassure the consciences of those who refuse to acknowledge the systemic failure that produces it. It is the easiest, most cowardly way to say: The evil is outside of us; lock it up and forget it.
Yet no one is born a criminal. Crime is the consequence of a long chain of events, often set in motion long before the offense is committed. Why should a child born in a neglected neighborhood, raised in a violent environment, without access to education, without any future prospects, develop the same moral awareness as the child of a billionaire, raised in privilege and security? Why should the first respect rules that have only ever been instruments of oppression for him, while the second knows that those same rules will always protect him? Society creates an uneven playing field and then demands that everyone play by the same rules.
And so, while the children of billionaires can break the law knowing that someone will always be there to save them, to clean up their image, to find them a lawyer who can make their problems disappear with a handshake, those born in the wrong place, in the wrong family, in the wrong neighborhood, are doomed from the start. And when they make a mistake—because at some point, they will, because they have no alternatives, because they know nothing else, because they were never given a chance—the system punishes them with fury, as if they alone were the problem. As if their crime were not the direct result of centuries of inequality, exploitation, and social injustice. As if the true monster were them, and not the society that produced them and then discarded them in the nearest courtroom.
But the most disgusting thing is that prison does not merely punish. Prison is revenge—revenge institutionalized, revenge disguised as justice. It does not just deprive people of their freedom; it humiliates, annihilates, destroys. Human beings are crammed into overcrowded cells, treated like toxic waste, stripped of their humanity until they become exactly what society expects them to be. The prison system is designed to degrade, to break, to make any form of redemption impossible. Because a person who comes out of prison after years of confinement does not emerge rehabilitated; they emerge angrier, more alienated, more embittered. And so the cycle repeats itself.
And for what? Because we cling to the belief that one person's suffering can compensate for another's? Prison does not bring victims back to life, does not erase pain, does not repair anything. It is merely the way society convinces itself that it has "settled the score" without ever addressing the deeper causes of crime. Because confronting the real problem would mean acknowledging that the system itself is rotten to the core—and that is too terrifying. It is easier to settle for punishment, to believe that evil exists only in others, to pretend that justice is a cage rather than a transformation.
But crime is not eliminated through prison; it is eliminated through education, by reducing inequalities, by creating a society in which no one is forced to commit crimes to survive. Prison is only a symptom, the final stage of an infection that society refuses to cure. As long as we invest more money in prisons than in schools, more in repression than in prevention, crime will never disappear. Because prison is not the solution. Prison is part of the problem.
- Thanatos Dismembered -
Come.
But do not crawl,
do not advance like a forsaken lover,
do not reach out your bony fingers to claim me.
I do not belong to you.
You waited, you hoped,
that I would be the one to extend my hand,
that I would kneel before you,
but you will not have even that satisfaction.
I will not be your trophy; I will be your downfall.
You, who have watched millions fall in your wake,
who have filled graves and emptied eyes,
who have built altars from the bones of the defeated,
now stand bare, without prey, without power.
I want to die amid thunder and fury,
in the shockwave that shatters your reign,
I want to die in the shot that breaks time,
in the blood that flows without your name carved into it.
Look at me, Death.
You have nothing left to take,
no one left to bow beneath your scythe.
You expected a sacrifice, a tribute,
but I gave you no choice,
I took from you the pleasure of the harvest.
You have not won, you have claimed nothing,
this time, you are the one left empty-handed.
Your cycle is now ash scattered in the wind,
your hunger twists into a silent scream,
there is no one left to drag into the darkness.
I want to die where I was born,
in the flash that set flesh ablaze,
in the detonation that vomited the universe,
in the roar that shattered the gates of the void.
And when the shot rips through the silence,
when the metal burns away your final breath,
when blood gushes onto your astonished face,
you will know it is over.
You have taken nothing, you have stolen no one,
you were never the curtain's close, just a fading illusion.
I did not meet you, I crushed you.
I did not bow, I ridiculed you.
And the blood flows, Death, but not mine.
And not theirs.
You will not even have that consolation.
For those who, like me, enjoy nihilistic literature, I've decided to gather his threads under one heading. Respect...
- The Cathedral of the Wind -
The substance of being corrodes, disintegrating into infinitesimal particles suspended in the aridity of a desert that acknowledges neither past nor future. Here, in the mute expanse of Fuerteventura, where the earth curls under the weight of an unrelenting sun, every pretense of meaning dissolves like salt licked away by the tide.
I am what remains after the shipwreck of illusions, the voice that seeps through the cracks in the stone, the muffled lament of a god imploded within its own void. I have neither body nor face, yet I exist in the echo of every thought that buckles under the weight of its own senselessness. No name could contain me, for I am the indistinct, the shadow without origin, the whisper of eternal dissipation.
Man advances, convinced that he carves a furrow in time, yet he leaves nothing but brittle footprints, devoured by the wind before he can even recognize them. What remains of his flesh, if not dust? What remains of his hopes, if not the reflection of a light already extinguished? Life is neither a gift nor a promise: it is a flicker that vanishes before it can be understood, a claw that carves only to disappear, leaving behind nothing but the mutilation of the futile.
The sky stretches like a canvas of obsidian, indifferent to the convulsions of those who yearn for meaning. Here, among rocks eroded by time, every prayer crashes against the void, crumbling into silence like a breath of ash. There is no judgment, no redemption. Only the perpetual unraveling, the irreversible collapse of every human construct, the slow annihilation of will.
And yet, man persists in believing in his own permanence, clinging to symbols, names, memories, like a blind man grasping at emptiness, convinced he holds the light. But I know the truth: every echo is destined to fade, every gaze to vanish, every word to dissolve into the inexistence from which it was born. For nothing can withstand oblivion, nothing escapes the quiet catastrophe of time.
I have seen it happen a thousand times. I have seen men kneel on these sands, searching for answers where only silence dwells. I have seen their mouths twist into pleas with no recipient, their eyes flailing in search of a light that will never come. And in the end, I have seen them surrender, swallowed by the same void that created them.
There is nothing beyond this awareness. No epiphany, no salvation. Only the perpetual slide into nothingness, the extinction of all meaning, the end of everything before it can ever truly be.
So why fear what is already inscribed in the breath of creation itself? Why resist the inevitable when the only truth is annihilation?
I am the wind that erases every trace. I am the voice that proclaims the futility of every step, the guardian of an altar that bears no promise. Listen to me, and let the void embrace you as the only sincere touch you will ever know.
- Survival Manual for Desperate Optimists -
Humanity has spent millennia convincing itself that life has value, meaning, and direction. It has built cathedrals, empires, philosophies, and entire scientific disciplines to justify its existence, to ennoble its chaotic march toward inevitable dissolution. But the truth is that life is nothing more than a biochemical accident, a collective delusion imbued with meaning only because the alternative—the void—is too terrifying to accept.
Look at them: waking up every morning, dragging themselves out of bed, facing traffic and meetings to sustain a system that swallowed them at birth and will return them to oblivion without so much as a thank you. They struggle for careers no one will remember, build relationships doomed to decay, produce children who will repeat the same cycle of self-deception. They are prisoners in a cage without bars, where the sentence is consciousness and the executioner is hope.
Every era has sought its antidote to nihilism: God, Reason, Progress, Love, Family, Productivity. Yet, none of these substitutes have ever withstood the weight of reality. There is no ultimate purpose, only an absurd prolongation of existence in increasingly sophisticated forms, disguised as virtue, personal growth, or societal improvement. It is the philosophical equivalent of repainting the façade of a building doomed for demolition—a distraction to avoid admitting that beneath the surface, everything rots.
But do not worry, there is always room for the ridiculous. The optimists—those cheerful vendors of existential smoke—will tell you that life is beautiful, that it is worth living, that every moment is an opportunity. These are the same people who applaud marriages doomed from the start, who praise hard work while billionaires thrive on their backs, who post motivational quotes while crying in traffic or swallowing pills to get through another day. And yet, they insist: "Be positive!"—as if the problem were perception and not the condition of existence itself.
Life is not a blessing; it is a sentence with excellent marketing. We are taught to fear death, but no one tells us that the real horror is the slow process of living, the dilution of being into a routine devoid of purpose, the absurdity of accumulating experiences, money, and status only to be forgotten by a world that will keep spinning with the same cosmic indifference as always.
So, what remedy remains? None. Suicide is too theatrical a gesture for such a mediocre stage, and survival is merely a matter of inertia. The only option is to enjoy the spectacle with a touch of irony, to laugh at the farce, to embrace the nonsense, to play with the system without deluding oneself that it has any meaning. The awareness of nothingness is the last form of freedom left. Because in the end, if we must perform in this comedy, we might as well do it with style. And if you truly can't bear this farce any longer, then it's better to drop the curtain for good.
- Fred and the Theater of Daily Absurdity -
Fred sat on a park bench, watching the depressing spectacle of human life unfolding before his eyes with the same grace as an egg smashing onto concrete.
Here comes a guy in a suit, walking briskly, his phone glued to his ear like a post-evolutionary appendage. He's passionately discussing business strategies, KPIs, and "creating value." Fred wonders if this man has ever realized that his existence is just an endless loop of useless meetings designed to generate money he'll never have time to spend, while his body slowly rots in an ergonomic office chair.
A little further, a couple is arguing about who gets to choose the movie for the night. "We need to find something we both like," she says, as if watching a movie were some profound existential act. Fred wonders—why worry so much about picking the "right" thing when, in the end, everything is just another illusion to fill the time before decomposition?
Then there's an influencer recording a video, passionately preaching about how important it is to "believe in yourself and never give up." Fred smirks. It's astonishing how desperately humans cling to their own insignificance, like a fly convinced it can escape a glue trap with the sheer power of positive thinking.
And of course, the cyclist in his aerodynamic suit, pedaling as if time were currency and he needed to save every second. To go where, exactly? Toward a grave in better shape than the others?
Fred shakes his head and gets up, fully aware that everyone around him is an unknowing actor in a play that never had a script or an ending worth watching. The world keeps spinning, driven by blind inertia, while everyone pretends they have a role to play.
Fred walks away laughing—because he knows, in the end, there's no one watching the show.
- The Illusion of Consciousness: The Brain as a Prison of Nothingness -
The human brain is a failed experiment of nature, a lump of damp flesh that believes itself to be a deity. A malfunctioning device, a system error that, instead of executing simple biological commands, has convinced itself that it is something more—that it has a soul, a purpose, a value. The truth? You are nothing but a chemical accident, a cluster of nerve cells obsessed with its own reflection, a parasite desperately trying to forget its insignificance while the universe grinds it down without even noticing.
But don't worry, you'll never suffer enough to truly understand it. Because your brain is a perfect magician, a cheap illusionist trapping you in a mediocre script without ever showing you the empty audience. It will make you believe you have goals, ambitions, passions, and when the weight of absurdity starts to sink in, when a crack appears in the facade, it will already be there to stitch it back together with fresh lies. It will throw you into the arms of love, career, family, hope—any placebo strong enough to distract you from the fact that you are nothing more than a frightened ape on a rock floating through nothingness.
And the most pathetic part? You like it. You like believing you are special, that you have a destiny, that you matter. You like looking in the mirror and thinking there is something unique about your existence. But the reality is that you are nothing more than a pawn in a game that no one is playing. Your body is programmed to endure, to seek meaning everywhere because if you truly saw the void for what it is, you would stop moving, stop speaking, stop existing. Your brain cannot allow that. It does not want the truth. It only wants to keep you functional, like a machine that must never realize it is broken.
And even if, for a single moment, just one, you managed to see beyond the curtain—if you realized that every emotion is merely the result of a chemical reaction, that your love, your pain, your fear are nothing more than electrical impulses with no real meaning—do you know what would happen? Your brain would pull you back. It would tell you to be strong, to look ahead, to believe that there is still something worth living for. It would drag you back into illusion, into deception, into the gilded cage you call existence.
And you will let it. Because nothingness is unbearable, but the lie is comforting.
- The Prison Illusion: A Society That Punishes to Avoid Responsibility -
Prison is not justice; it is a collective illusion, the fetish of a society incapable of looking in the mirror. It is the symptom of a culture that prefers to punish rather than understand, repress rather than transform, seek revenge rather than heal. Every prison cell built is a monument to the hypocrisy of those who pretend to fight crime without ever questioning why it exists. Prison is nothing more than a giant social dumpster, a place where society dumps those it has already condemned to failure, then deludes itself into believing the problem is solved.
But does anyone really believe that crime is an isolated act? Can we truly reduce guilt to a single individual, as if they were born in a vacuum, without history, without environment, without conditioning? As if their crime were a bolt from the blue, an inexplicable anomaly to be eradicated? The truth is that prison was never meant to solve crime—it exists to obscure its causes. It serves only to reassure the consciences of those who refuse to acknowledge the systemic failure that produces it. It is the easiest, most cowardly way to say: The evil is outside of us; lock it up and forget it.
Yet no one is born a criminal. Crime is the consequence of a long chain of events, often set in motion long before the offense is committed. Why should a child born in a neglected neighborhood, raised in a violent environment, without access to education, without any future prospects, develop the same moral awareness as the child of a billionaire, raised in privilege and security? Why should the first respect rules that have only ever been instruments of oppression for him, while the second knows that those same rules will always protect him? Society creates an uneven playing field and then demands that everyone play by the same rules.
And so, while the children of billionaires can break the law knowing that someone will always be there to save them, to clean up their image, to find them a lawyer who can make their problems disappear with a handshake, those born in the wrong place, in the wrong family, in the wrong neighborhood, are doomed from the start. And when they make a mistake—because at some point, they will, because they have no alternatives, because they know nothing else, because they were never given a chance—the system punishes them with fury, as if they alone were the problem. As if their crime were not the direct result of centuries of inequality, exploitation, and social injustice. As if the true monster were them, and not the society that produced them and then discarded them in the nearest courtroom.
But the most disgusting thing is that prison does not merely punish. Prison is revenge—revenge institutionalized, revenge disguised as justice. It does not just deprive people of their freedom; it humiliates, annihilates, destroys. Human beings are crammed into overcrowded cells, treated like toxic waste, stripped of their humanity until they become exactly what society expects them to be. The prison system is designed to degrade, to break, to make any form of redemption impossible. Because a person who comes out of prison after years of confinement does not emerge rehabilitated; they emerge angrier, more alienated, more embittered. And so the cycle repeats itself.
And for what? Because we cling to the belief that one person's suffering can compensate for another's? Prison does not bring victims back to life, does not erase pain, does not repair anything. It is merely the way society convinces itself that it has "settled the score" without ever addressing the deeper causes of crime. Because confronting the real problem would mean acknowledging that the system itself is rotten to the core—and that is too terrifying. It is easier to settle for punishment, to believe that evil exists only in others, to pretend that justice is a cage rather than a transformation.
But crime is not eliminated through prison; it is eliminated through education, by reducing inequalities, by creating a society in which no one is forced to commit crimes to survive. Prison is only a symptom, the final stage of an infection that society refuses to cure. As long as we invest more money in prisons than in schools, more in repression than in prevention, crime will never disappear. Because prison is not the solution. Prison is part of the problem.
- Thanatos Dismembered -
Come.
But do not crawl,
do not advance like a forsaken lover,
do not reach out your bony fingers to claim me.
I do not belong to you.
You waited, you hoped,
that I would be the one to extend my hand,
that I would kneel before you,
but you will not have even that satisfaction.
I will not be your trophy; I will be your downfall.
You, who have watched millions fall in your wake,
who have filled graves and emptied eyes,
who have built altars from the bones of the defeated,
now stand bare, without prey, without power.
I want to die amid thunder and fury,
in the shockwave that shatters your reign,
I want to die in the shot that breaks time,
in the blood that flows without your name carved into it.
Look at me, Death.
You have nothing left to take,
no one left to bow beneath your scythe.
You expected a sacrifice, a tribute,
but I gave you no choice,
I took from you the pleasure of the harvest.
You have not won, you have claimed nothing,
this time, you are the one left empty-handed.
Your cycle is now ash scattered in the wind,
your hunger twists into a silent scream,
there is no one left to drag into the darkness.
I want to die where I was born,
in the flash that set flesh ablaze,
in the detonation that vomited the universe,
in the roar that shattered the gates of the void.
And when the shot rips through the silence,
when the metal burns away your final breath,
when blood gushes onto your astonished face,
you will know it is over.
You have taken nothing, you have stolen no one,
you were never the curtain's close, just a fading illusion.
I did not meet you, I crushed you.
I did not bow, I ridiculed you.
And the blood flows, Death, but not mine.
And not theirs.
You will not even have that consolation.
