A wasted, still-folded map of everywhere.

Of course, it appeared to have mass. And I ate it. After all, I'd had my heart set on a dream of home.

Tears over a broken doll. Everywhere had become alarmingly misguided, content to chew at first sight. The constant trickle of tears weathering paths through mountains of stone was no wonder. I cried out too. Time beaten in to a lost universe, or vice-versa, converting the vessels of conscious beings into choice morsels of tone of voice, reins on the incomprehensible child inside - and with no path to contradict its tirade, tearing paths to nowhere out from their invisible hearts, or those whose hue they would taint : the exception being, perhaps, the end of the day, though that was nowhere to be found in dreams - only in fleeting memories of almost imperceptible disintegration which ruled its momentary nature into a certainty.

Through them, obviously. The way forward. Forcing it all through weighted vectors and laser surgery lobotomies, whispers through an open wound from a catatonic baboon who you'd feel compassion for if you weren't sharing a prison cell with its subtle yet effective tendency to mutilate without comprehension. Then squeezed into the inescapable - and a shit - by a gigantic boa constrictor. A web spun round the breath of the ages, shapes you know to be false, useless or as unloved as a caged and humoured pet with a tired owner who talks to you as if you were something that should understand, as opposed to something to be understood.

There's no time for it. Harmony in today's idiocentric world has prerequisite investment requirements. On certain scales, doom, or your responsibility for it, in yourself or others, is not one of them. I am quite sure, at the very least, that doom itself is not one of the prerequisites. Though perhaps intelligence of a different nature is something which could negate this possibility entirely.