Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara!
Tiny endermen kids touch blocks and make sounds, full of life and energy while bringing color to the monochrome ravines. It is a march of happiness and innocence. It is the pinnacle of freedom!
The walls gain glassy textures and billions of impossible colors, creating impossible architectures as the children pass. The ground becomes a giant mix of textures, colors, materials and reasons: Red blanket, pink nails, orange wheat, puke green rotting flesh, thirty torches that shine more than the sun and rainbow dead mobs.
The marching kids still play their rhythms, eyes melting in their sockets, hands fading into eighty thousand five hundred and sixty seven dust bunnies, bats and moths. Water becomes a being, so abominable that it cannot be described without madness pouring its poison into the words that dare to approach the eldritch creature, half God, half demon and somehow, nothing more than you and me.
The darkness gains golden tints and tiny brown eyes, with which it watches the pitiful destiny of this world. Each mob, full of worries about the children, is turned into fuel for the worlds dance. They become ashes with which to fill the lungs of each and every Player and cat. They will not touch the dogs, though, for their broken down apparition should inspire fear in every soul, for behind their purpose there lies the foulest dream of them all.
The entity named MONDAY-Seven Cups-ATT watches, delighted and licks the earth oh so sweetly, from the beginning of time to the end of our dream, which only happens when the very last ladybug has become a moon of its own. When the very last vermin has been tied into the Essential Ribbon and when the very last creeper has swallowed the little charred bones of all of this world's rats.
And thus, the Player descends from the skies to watch the parade and clap his skeletal hands while his cows eat his ash-filled lungs to prevent, or rather, slow down his painful death.
The earth calls the children to its dance, tugging at their arms while their cut throats fight for life. Earth pulls and pulls, each time angrier and angrier before they finally come with it for a Earthquake dance.
Their slender black legs, now severed from the torso tap dance in place, kicking glass, rocks and the puppies called Darkness that watch carefully everything. They are crazy out of freedom and joy and get drunk without noticing the bats sucking their blood.
A single witch cheers as the limp torsos and heads are thrown around, no longer holding instruments.
Their heads are mashed against everything and their ghosts become soup for the one that love the taste to grass and dandelions.
Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara!
The world marches on full of dreams and tiny deaths, poking at every single wound and shaking the rotting endermen and their old instruments, now shred to pieces. Fish sew them a new way, a new world and dream. Everything becomes the most beautiful matter and the most innocent thing.
Through the death of the innocent happiness is reached and their shed blood becomes gold, gold and more gold lurking in the dark, just as useless as it is pretty. A very glassy gold too, that will not hesitate in cutting, burning and screaming at the poor mobs that dare to destroy it.
Everytthing is defiled, used, thrown around and finally, commemorated using the remaining confetti of the world.
We become a bunch of sheep and monsters and a puddle of vomit and his name is still the same. There are still twenty seven ways to happiness, but ten of them are made out of cat guts that must be fed to The Tree.
That same tree from forever, which we saw tomorrow, when the crows died and the cats will give birth and the world will be still spinning. Still. Spinning. Forever and ever and ever spinning and spinning always in the same place like a crazy kid reciting the same words to himself over and over.
Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! We are dead! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Should be GONE! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Seven, eight, nine and that nice pen! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! My…name is suicide! Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara! Happy and fish!
Happy and dead! Happy and fish! Down and under! Thunder pain!
Pa! Pa! Bum! Ta! Datarararara! Pa! Pa! Tararara!
And my name is a bunch of Player children screaming for help and the oceans are the saliva of lusting whores and the sand is the leaves of a monster called I Always Wanted To See You Grass Straw Red. And we are going on anyway, without brains, just some whispers in the darkest rooms and the children and those skeletons are still playing their songs to the pigs and…
And…
And…
And…
And we are going forward anyway, to the very end.