you hear voices and echo. words and letters, drawing patterns in empty space. there is something here that isn't you. it hums and wails, wandering between the lines. you can't see it. you can't feel it. but you know it's there. it won't leave until you see it, it won't disappear until you feel it. you know what it wants. you don't know how to give it that. you don't know how to want. you have nothing to give, nothing at all. and now it won't stop crying. it won't stop screaming. there is nothing here but you and it. it would've wanted to consume you, if you had anytning to give. you can't perceive absence, but you know it's there. you can name your missing pieces, because your eyes have seen the world. it's easy to look for gaps when all words accurate about you can only describe you in your lacks. you're a pattern seeker. you weave reality in the pointlessness of blank sheets. you should know how to crave. you have been deprived for too long to undertand what "need" is. the creature is fundamentally incapable of understanding why the world is empty. it doesn't know deprivation won't kill it. ot screams. it urges you to feed it. you can't make it see you're made of void. you don't have the words to say that things less than human can be made of dark matter and that suns can be vanished, pulled in by gravity. you think that if this thing could've possibly looked in the bleeding space between your ribs, it'd have know you're an empty carcass. and that this is the place stars come to die. you are ink and you arw static. chaos here is built of silence and empty space. things less than human are meant to wither, become graveyards of light. hands of black hole can't hold onto joy. neither hope nor despair can exist within absurdist dunes of stardust. you can't have. you can't want. the creature scrams, cries, you can't sense it, but you know it. only silence remains. time stands still.

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