Witness what remains.
Nobody ever expects it, and, let's be honest, you were in no way expecting anything to happen of note today, given the emptiness not only of the day but of your whole life, that same, dreary, day in, day out, living and surviving and living and still you keep fucking living so now we have to do something, and all of the sudden the fuck-ton of emptiness you had becomes a whirlwind of pain and sadness, but reality and humanity and that spark, you know the one, the magic spark that pushes us towards and away from greatness and history, the knifes blade that controls and fights and sharpens your wit, until, wit, there is nothing left to witness, and without a witness how can you possibly exist, but of course you can't, nobody can, who thinks that they are truly worthy of self-observation, this perverse internal leer as you mentally reach out to all that makes your domain, your mind, soul, and body, and body, and flesh and blood and organs and skin and rot and life and pain and only, every so often, if one is especially lucky, you are given the chance to create and there is no true parallel to that of progenitor, the sculptor ex nihilo, exhale now and never excel even in emptiness, but then you realize that it is all that we destroy transforms in our minds' eyes, and what was nihilo is now ex — escape velocity is never easy to obtain, of course, you live by that mantra, stuck between two forces of gravity, pushed and pulled and stomped and lifted up, up, up but only just high enough that when they let you go, you are tumbling, falling, plummeting, witnessing your own inevitable death until you finally crash, dive down deep into the loving embrace of our captors, the parasitic disease we call family, lost and aghast in a cavalcade of needful things, useless things, things that wit not to witness, losing who they are to the inevitable, creeping, exciting, logic-defying truth, that while all things may end in death, you are not all things, you are not death, you are not a witness, you are not, witnessing ex vivo en nihilo, the memories of nihilo exhale and exhaust and terrify and multiply extracting the essence of what it means to forget, and there it is, that is the sin that we endeavor to oblige, the errata we long to erase, nihilo y nihilo y nihilo, until we once again remain, and return, but where do you return when the only scrap of life that you cling to is held to wit only by the witless one, withering and wilting under the eyes of the observers, the observed, the ex-ambassadors of the land where dreams live until they are dreamt, a dying planet hemorrhaging the hopes and nightmares and compilations of what was once you, but has never truly been yourself, of course, nothing can ever truly hope to be self, after all, self is as selfless as self does, and does the self salvage the selvage end of our untimely strings of fate, the ever-woven tapestry of irrelevant emptiness, the taunts that echo through the empty school prisons, the impacts that rock the very foundation upon which self is built, and with it, the death of observation and the reincarnation of identification as commodity, the capitalistic nightmare that gives power to those without wit, those who have the right stuff, the special sauce, the magic that flows out through the mind and onto the page, the ex-sculptors now consumed into nihilo, those special few who deign to inscribe their images and memories and hatred and longing and memories, of course memories, we remember, remember members whose membranes we punctured just to get a better view, a glimpse into that which we cannot be, those we are unable to live as, the un-un-dead, living amongst the monsters of the digital worlds we conceive just to lock away on a server, the server who witnesses our greed, the child, the idea, the genesis ex nihilo ex genesis, the one who is left — you suddenly realize, you alone are a witness to today.