The End of the World is seething. Hungry. It cannot consume enough to fill its dread void, yet keeps trinkets – small reminders of past meals – up on display. The things slowly, so slowly, decompose and blend together into a confusing combination of past, now, and what will be – the world howls at their loss. It wants. Wants, wants, wantswantswants. More. More to take their place, to fill it up. They will make it whole again; they will recreate a world as beautiful and complete and whole as all the others. It will be so pretty.
It will devour every other world to realize this yearning, and when all the multi-verse is lightless and dark (never lost, for they are all one now) it will finally fall upon its own body. It will gorge itself on all of its reminders and finally be just as perfect, just as lovely, as all the others.
The World That Never Was knows that it was whole once. There is no sense of what it was like, of course, but knowledge is always useful. It doesn't need anything else – light, darkness, all those useless things, and rejects them summarily.
Then the tug starts. Suddenly, without warning, something far off in the distance explodes and is reborn into...into something else. It sits now, in that far off place, waiting. Wanting.
Go! Go, before it is too late! Reclaim it!
Yet the nothing world drifts on, heedless of this spark of yearning. That dream was long ago.