And what does the god of gods do in retrospect of a terra well devised? A grin upon his lips, cackling from within a waxing entity picks up a pen. It's a life spurt he wishes to transcribe. Where do those, most glorious of visions birth; when do they die. Authors forever from the explosion of the universe still leave a sparkle in the eyes of children not yet enlightened unto mortality. Spheres of tantalizing mythology ring youthful past all ages remembered and add to the light entrusted to the eye. Listen to and borrow from the past, be ever perceptive of now and ever diligent the future here to repay. Seize the day! On the morrow maybe, emboldened godhead seeking ethereal retribution, make thee awake a smelly corpse!
Harvey awoke catching glimpses of a dissolving dream. It always so exasperated him to be unable to remember in full the gossamer images of the brain at rest. But rested and wild with itch he did awake, looking across the room at the old familiar wallpaper flowers. He sat up, half wanting to verify the number of orchids, daisies, roses, and lilacs at 2572, 7527, 1550, and 5293. The desire faded as fast as it had come for he already was quite certain of their quantity.
A new and more profound desire was impeding in him now. He reached between his legs to grab hold of that desire. In the right cushion of the couch he found it. An immense stack of pages with scribbles colliding in gleeful bliss, running this way and that across the pages, bumping margins emerged as from a chrysalis - a beautiful butterfly. What a smile it brought to his face! Inky paragraphs rammed each other, warping their linear positions. They played optical, texualized, illusions with the eye as the bunched words stared back at him paradoxically (paradoxical because of what they contained) from every sheet. Such ecstasy! The tiny irreproducible lines were so simple and so complex in their bizarre infinity. Their current number was 329. No inch of any page was wasted and the writing was intricate and exotic. Little doodles of odd unrecognizable forms peered about the sides and amongst the text itself. Although amazed at how these little white worlds command a powerful phantom incessantly begging attention, Harvey had other, more important things to attend to - the blank pages.
Searching further he found his tools, a black, silver-wreathed kit. Inside lived three unique sized fountain pens with an assortment of 12 different heads. The storing paper and pens under the right cushion made a rather uncomfortable lump and crackled whenever he moved but Harvey was unable to sleep unless they where there breathing almost imperceptibly beneath his ear. Standing quickly he moved to retrieve the ink from the Shelve of Infinite Books at near running speed. When he returned he picked a fresh page from the stack and sat, now dipping, now writing, listening to the gentle, divine music of the rain.
From the moment he sat his pen to the page words came in violent, gentle, rhythmic patterns. A tentacled, bucktoothed, deaf, trench coat attired, parasite went looking to bum a cigarette before finding a host whom he couldn't hear scream. Harvey visited a man living in an eternal cube floating above a limb-laden field whom played a funny game with his feet. A shiny planet evolved whose ruler was a hacking machine and its inhabitants spoke of three masticating heads that devoured twirl-headed children. A two-dimensional man received a wound to the head and broke free of his prison leaving a bloody stickman in the wake of a new existence. Universes' pregnancies burst, birthing worlds that grew and died in the mind of Harvey, etching residual traces of these worlds on page after page in the Lexus Module. Harvey! A god!
How much time had passed since first he set his pen to the page Harvey could not say, nor did he want to. Slowly he added numbers to the total that now equaled 397. Up until this point he had been pleased with his progress. Things were changing now, whether it be from sleep deprivation or utter loneliness he could not be sure. The pages had life, that was sure and his volume was currently as thick as most of the others on the Shelve of Infinite Books, but where was a single soul to read it? How was he to bind it? When would it be complete? He set his pen to the paper but the words were now absurd and meaningless. The ink swirled incomprehensibly and writhed - a sentient vegetation piercing the brain it once so lovingly caressed. How futile it all was. The toil laid waste to an eternal void in the singular existence of one person boiling, capsizing in a beating brain, forever alone!
Harvey screamed.
He pulled his hair and stood, pacing hard. The Lexus Module shook terrible quakes, buzzed unparalleled tremors, hummed low in spite and denial. Reality skewed as it had done so many bitter times before, arching its back until Harvey was left a crying heap on the hump of his floor. He was waning fast now and cried an absurd song as his tears flowed to the corners of his positively curved room watching the face of a ball-headed boy.
Waft, wimple, tack among the trees,
Tie, dry, fists flown fast because
Never painted placid man untied where no one sees
A fitful fainted folly fuzz
That buckled at the knees.
Remember the casting of stone upon stone,
Constructing a pink castle's core
Warped about something we haven't been shown,
Awaiting 'it', but what is unsure -
An enigmatic unknown.
There's something! There's something! My soul canals drain.
The cucumbers have counted forever,
Those quantities now realized in vain
I can't stop the shiver! Oh worthless endeavor!
Oh God won't you call off the rain?
His efforts only compounded his 'sorrow' and he sobbed as the world curved down in the evening and the rain.
"Eternity! Recycle this mirth!" Harvey pleaded.
