He could not remember the beginning of the fall.
Indeed, it seemed as though he had been falling for quite some time. Like rousing out of a drunk stupor, he came to, falling.
He must have fell from someplace.
Blackness was all around, encroaching him, moving towards him, or was he moving towards it?
Emptiness was behind him, yet he left no wake.
It was more like every point he looked towards pointed in a direction that lead to nothing.
A simple void that meant everything.
Geometry failed.
He thought back, about those he had loved, and realized he could not remember.
He thought he had cared about people, but their faces, their names, and all memories of any others humans simply did not exist.
Maybe Nothing remembered fought through lacking time and dream Space be Emptied while Hope narrows narrative.
Alone and always, dark
Welcome.
Recline on one of our couches, upholstered in the finest silk we could have, imported from the Orient.
Take your pipe, filled with quality Afghan Poppy, and imbibe, while you listen to our house poets take you to transcendent realms with their words.
Should you feel so bold, feel free to pen a poem, or short story here, while you are under the beautiful duress of the midnight's oil.
(post is archived)