False Vacuum

My microcosmos is really a false vacuum. It may eventually collapse. I read an article floating in the wind. I become an unwritten novel.

I watch the ants carry the breadcrumbs into the dismal soil leading into another world. I look outside seeing pockets of pain. I yearn to jettison out of my world on a jet.

A long voyage around the liquid abyss from which silent screams emanate. The light dims outside and I wait for deliverance from Epic Error.

All may eventually collapse into scurrilous beliefs invented by squirrels or scavengers. Am I greater than the sum of my fragments? I'm too exhausted to answer this. Persistence is futile.

The King of Pain is omniscient.

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