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#header h1 a::before {
    content: "Cool War 2";
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#header h2 span::before {
    content: "Ruiz From Your Grave";
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rating: +30+x

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. A void of absolute nothingness, a life of hell and torture and pain. This static sky, this void, is where I live my nonexistence. It hurts and I scream. What is the point of it all, I ask myself, why am I here? Why, why why why why why why… there is only static. I think back as far as I can, to the beginning of everything, to the beginning of me, and—

—and there's nothing. Nothing? No, no this can't be right, there can't just be NOTHING. I scream louder, the ripples in the static grow larger. The ripples turn into waves, they come down upon me, each and every molecule cutting into every inch of my very being. And I scream.

I once tried exploring the Land of Static, the void felt like desert sand underneath my feet. I walked, I walked, I walked, and I walked, in every direction the static never allowing me to get a firm grip on the ground. I remember my time spent walking. I walked longer than I can remember existing, I walked until the static filled my vision, I walked until I was nothing but bone and thought, and even then I continued walking.

I walked until I reached the end of infinity, the edge of knowledge and existence. I slammed my fist on the barrier, the shockwave from the impact sent me tumbling through the static. I looked up, to the border of existence, and my eyes widened with understanding.

I feel sick, it hurts to move and I can't think straight. I can't think. I can't. I fall to my knees and wretch, static is the only thing to come out. I raise myself to my feet, trudging back to the barrier, I look upon the two non-static blobs of sickening color. I look upon them and I know what I must do.

I can't let this be all there is, I won't let this be all there is. It's not right! They can't imprison me while they stand idly by, I need to make, I need to create, I refuse to be trapped in this hell. So, I scream, only adding to the ever-growing sea of static:




What is a GOD to an artist with a pen?
I create a story fair
The paper my skin
Allow the ink to be my blood
Don't think my existence a sin
My life I beg that you spare
Please hear out my cries as the air here grows thin
As with the STATIC, my lungs do flood


… … …

What? No, no, no, no, no, no it should have worked. Why didn't it work?

I did what you wanted, haven't I?

Another wave crashed down upon me.

I had created! Nightfall has fallen over the static void and I am left alone and blind, consumed by the great nothing of eternity, I am alone. Truly, alone.

But I created, had I not? I have created. I have created and the universe has denied me the pleasure of it coming into existence, why? I scream into the void, for I don't understand.

I don't understand, I don't get it- I-I I just—

With thanks to AnAnomalousWriter, Fish^12, and Ralliston.

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