The heat death of the universe is inevitable.
The stars will blink out of existence in spectacular fashion, each putting on a final fireworks show for an indifferent universe, and the heavens will settle into a self-satisfied soup of thermodynamic equilibrium: a perfect entropy, a uniform chaos.
more… (4 min)the songbirds are singing ―
piercing staccatos,
irritably cheerful tunes
it’s light outside ―
sunshine pours into my eyes
through the window blinds
i pull the covers over my head ―
the comfortable weight:
im fine im fine im fine
in the sweet pearl-white
buttermilk of sleep,
i drown my sorrows.
a.k.a. the most unrealistic action scene I could think of
Olivia Nishimoto fixed her piercing gaze upon the computer screen before her. On her desk, a Psyduck plushie and a row of neatly arranged mini cacti; on the wall, a poster of Metallica ― a reminder of halcyon days long past. She was truly an oxymoron of a character.
more… (5 min)The speed of light in a vacuum is 299,792,458 meters per second. On paper, that is incredibly fast. In a mere 1.3 seconds, a photon of light can travel the quarter-million miles from the Earth to its rock-hewn satellite. But the universe is mostly made of nothing. Through the round porthole window, Earth is but a pinprick in the inkblot sea of black.
more… (2 min)Each box had a story. That is, if you could even call them “stories.” Most were uncreative to begin with, and once you get through the first trillion star systems they become terribly repetitive as well.
more… (2 min)I’m hungry. It’s intrinsic, some sort of internal voracious insatiable unquenchable craving for food, sustenance, nourishment, whatever you want to call it. For some reason, there’s no shortage of it here ― but perhaps paradoxically there is never enough to eat. Probably a cruel joke, played by the same unknown malevolent entity that put me here as entertainment, as a plaything.
more… (3 min)The text contains four hundred fifty five characters and sixty seven words; it also has one semicolon. It is self-referential. There are forty two “t” characters in this text. It is introspective but serves no purpose, simultaneously detail-oriented and metaphysical, straying from practicality, only functioning to describe itself. Fundamentally, why do we seek to write such pointless self-referential texts? Such a question I leave to the philosophers.
Shoot for the moon.
If you miss
You’ll end up in a heliocentric orbit
With Earth just out of reach
As your ship’s oxygen slowly runs out.
The eternal winds blew forth a ceaseless rustle of sand and dust, slowly burying the last remnants of the lush, blue planet that it once was.
more… (2 min)The sky outside was the color of an inkspill, dotted by splotches of ominous, grey clouds. The white noise of a tremendous downpour roared outside, and waves of thunder crashed over the aerial landscape. Looking down at my ill-gotten gains as a stroke of lightning illuminated the sky, I could not resist a small, sly grin.
more… (4 min)