A vessel pure, untainted, fragile as frigid steel brittle and cold looks upon desolation's domain. A city of charred bones and cracked concrete; shattered asphalt and bent streetlamps; silent town squares and snowed-in corner shops.

The harbinger of nought cometh from above, the all-end drawn in maddened scribbles and possessed scrawls which'd manifested from dreams feverish and tangible. It will swallow us whole, not noticing the uncountable claws and rabid maws gnawing at it's slithering gullet, not caring for the reminiscence it will unmake, not caring for the hunger it will feel just as viciously as before.

Satiation is unattainable, satisfaction but a dream. The lust for attrition outgrew the need for nutrition long ago, becoming a mulch grinder of hope and despair which reduces all into colourless mush indistinguishable from that which was unmade before it. It cannot be stopped, it cannot be bargained with, one cannot hope for peace from that whose very existence spites the concept.

I hope not for mercy, but the knowledge that my ceasing will mirror that of all else, and that my existence was as significant as a piece of broken marble in a gravel pit. A polished piece of nothing, an uncut diamond unloved and unappreciated, a hope shrivelled into a small, dry, thought-thing, not resembling that which it once held proudly into the sky.

And i hope not that it may come soon, for each day spent pondering the inevitable is worse a thousand fold than being torn apart atom by atom, worse than one's very essence being crudely ripped from one's inadequate vessel by a being unseen and unfelt yet cruel and conniving. Like an uncaring surgeon eagerly digging into the chest of their victim with scalpel laying abandon on the sterile table, jagged fingernails serving as the only implements of calculated torture.

Is there a point in talking when it's memory will be dust in the wind come time? Is there a will where despair has proven it's point relentlessly? Is there a reason for bold compassion, when what is returned is only spite? Is there light amidst thick malice, a fog so unforgiving even those who shine the brightest get swallowed whole by it?

What do you think?