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It is golden fingers wrapping against my skull, grazing and clawing its pretty pink nails. It is stripping me wet and throbbing. It is bellowing like wind, it is god damned awful. It is so tingling. So livid and living and alive and lovely and I die in its grace. I die like ribbons floundering in a gust of wind. Like an ice-dance erupt in fire and split down the middle, and a demon emerging ripped in proud muscles, torn like ambition and cowering in the face of its majestic opposite. So massive and powerful and ferocious, and yet useless as a rusty old heap of monumental pieces chained and growling from its post in the junkyard. So ugly and worthless and creative and burning.

And dying for the reason itself. To be able to. Because that is all we can do. But we can do it in so many different ways. We can do it long or real quick like a shadow black envelope or a dull, murky lake collecting in its place. And always there. And I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop needing it. I can't stop yearning it. Not death, oh no not death every stupid driver is in my cautious gaze and every weapon pointed the right way. Not a physical one anyways. But what can truly be lost? My memories exist in the same way they could. Nothing I really need would die. Just this illustrious, bleeding suffering in the back of my mind. I choose to kill that thing.

I crave it. That shadow. I crave for it to stop haunting me. So come at me, I say, and I expect nothing but what you are. Come at me, demon. You are and you are. And I... will find the God again when this needful thing ceases. Me and the illustrious void together in lovely harmony. Shadow as my friend. The tiger walks the same path as me, and though we find ourselves at odds with each other from time to time I fuel this flame with my nourishing guts. I collect the grounded things, the left-overs, the forgottens. And me and my people pitch these bits for our trolleys and truck them to the furnace, our tiger.

And he burns them all to void. New beginnings then rise from their remains. What was void is now ashy, silky soil. My team and I then water and ponder and blow empathic little kisses against this nasty manure until it grows.

It grows so lovely, and the loveliness shows as our little hearts dance at colors indescribable to us who only know blackness. And we pray so hard that our creations be strong and sturdy and always as pure as they were then.

And we protect what we made with our friends. Though the leeches and the weather plunder at our treasure, we build shelters for these things and work so hard to keep them clean. Though they dampen and they stain and willow in the sun rays we build walls and detergents and washers and gates.

And we protect what we made from our friends, those tarnishing blades they call trust. To plunder and sulk and you know that they must at least get a gripe of what you hold hidden. Bare and then thin and groping like mad at the blackness, looking so hard for a shard of what used to be pure and delicate and colorful.

...

But it's all over, now, isn't it? We didn't even make anything here at all, as far as the earth knows. And I see a family of little creatures below me collecting the dust and feeding it to their mothers. Beating their little hearts in pride for something they don't understand at all.