It was a stygian blackness; void between voids, equipoising precariously betwixt myriad of floccose elementary particles and vivacious quarks; the space within which the peripatetic wave function cannot reach within universal superstrings recurso ad infinitum that strum with the vibration of creation—the music of the Gods, their strings warp the fabric of space, their intricate melodies reaching the breathing of any dreamer within the bounds of their immaculate death pretend. Let there be light! The sound of the dream shatters with the thousand lighting strikes of the terrifying photon barrage minutely embracing the electrons, protons, neutrons and ad infinitum, that make the paltry sum of trillions of trillions of trillions of atoms that make up the man, nay, the boy—for merely five-thousand eight hundred and forty solar-passages, one hundred and ninety-two lunar revolutions have passed—certainly not enough to be considered a man—lest a child. There is rumbling, a quiet revolt against the tyranny of the sun, whose glare gives one the reason as to why it was worshipped in the plethora of religions and cultures that sprung up around the world; yet twas it so far, unreaching of the men that dreamt to fly among the stars themselves, who tried to fly on wings of wax—Icarus, comes to mind—due to ambitions of immortality and tasting the ambrosia, the nectar, the sweet peaches of undeath, the Amrit of the Gods—and many more have tasted, yet squandered that immortality after realizing the sorrows of love—the lover of sweet Kaguya comes to mind, whom had been given immortality, but the enlightenment of his unfulfillment of existence as the bodhisattva is sure to leave it forever. But alas! Where is the love? The love to coax one out of immortality? The love lost and unborn, forever a fetus in the belly of the beast, the leviathan whom circles the earth in the eternal threat of masticating upon it and bringing upon the Khaoskampf once more—certainly an apocalypse, but what is it compared to the torture of existence, of being knowing and unknowing at the same time—the disease that plagued as thorns of rose-bushes that surrounds the hearts of many a man! Let the world know! Let it weep! Let it burn into ashes as the world is once more torn asunder by the emulous gods whom covet the world and create man out of the ashes of the previous. Nay! Through knowing, man shall be able to form a statue of himself and fasten a god in the shape of himself and formulate the theories of his existence as the pinnacle of ultimate Good and Evil, the arbiter of justice and wisdom, the controller of the Universe, the Ubermensch, for the Man will be God, and the God will be unto him, the mirror of his soul will manifest the clarity of his sins against the world and he will be tranced by revelry. Hedonism is the cure for all ailments, yet it is the causer of the world's movements! The elites have shown themselves to be hedonistic beasts that succumb to worldly pleasures! Let the hammer of the people fall upon them in revolt against the modern world that the backs and blood of the gentle laborers have built upon the sundries of bodies that flay unbidden across the icy deserts of morality that constitute the world—Let them be the oasis for the meek, let them inherit the Earth, however let them be rattlesnakes and vipers to the ostentatious and pig-like, forever the enemy of those so-called, self-proclaimed masturbators that call themselves and weave unto themselves a coat they call the Gentleman. A blink! A blink! A flutter of the eyes of creation as the world begins to be perceived, the empirical mind that gathers sense-data to establish itself upon the existence of the world, of whom the great perceiver, God, hath made unto his image yet abandoned in the world for the paltry sin of merely savoring the knowledge of both good and evil from the Garden. The temptations of the devil. It is like the temptations of sleep as the boy, young, free and beautiful, tries to fight against the seductress that had caused the deaths of billions in the world every night, for sleep is death that is shy, and death is the blinking of one's immaterial mind upon the world, to be transported in another-the fantasy of men, everywhere, called the dreams upon all that is desired will be given. Yet! Alas, that desire is never given, for the Man, first has to ejaculate a reason for existence and his desire, yet he screams unto the void to give him desire, yet the void stays quiet, in its silent laughter against the man's plight to take him back into the void, tittering at the absurdity they witness in front of their immaterial, unreal selves. If a gardener is immaterial, unsensible, untouchable, unseeable and unsmellable, does that gardener truly exist? Does the Dream really exist and should it be always better than Reality? Is God truly the best thing in the world, and should it exist? What is it like for a watchmaker to abandon their watch, knowing that they will never know how time will be told through that watch forevermore? Yet, at the last, when the final bell toll, the white dwarfs leave their remnant breaths of light and the last civilizations around the cradles slowly begin to succumb to a lack of energy, their Boltzmann Brains dying out as the universe then undulates back into a state of both non-being and existence of infinite zeroes as Reality collapses into the great blackhole of existence, as thermodynamic entropy fizzles out, the energies and forces collapse a moment into Planck time; and finally, the infinitesimal dot of the universe is unmade, and remade back into reality, the galaxies form, the stars align, the solar system, the planets, moons and the Earth's evolution takes place, all in the singular moment of which one can say the breath of life is given to Man after being formed from Clay to serve God as the experimental variable of Free Will—! And the vicissitudes of reality transpose once more upon his soul.
And Hachiman wakes. Weeping.