I know what you're thinking... but trust me, it's not your fault.

Its only thought is merely a question never answered, just comments left to rot as they stretch out endlessly under the scrutiny of the sun.

Maybe in another world, another place, another universe, another race awaits a mastermind to stand on solid ground, not too blind to sound or sight, unheard.

Her words leave gentle marks across his lips, hips gyrating as his final breath punctuates unevenly, redacted phrases ultimately unsound for the cacophony of robot drones surrounding most all of us now...

And off to rest, forever-like, behest, finally to sleep at night, to live a day, as weeks, quoditiennally cascading down around the last layers of filament strewn between the sheet fabric of time only now having elapsed makes sense of sensory input, as sec, und, secs tick away at the eternal sec--tion array of fibrous tubules aligned carefully in tune with the eternal harmony as harbingers are brought forth empty handed, memories lapsed -

Now just vague reflections cast in the fading aluminium casket fast leaving Earth's gravity, lest a prophet or medium should ever uncover their true meaning reminiscent of beauty long gone, bored through by mundane plastic chutes of resin just short of flashpoint, never opposed, expose the underlying weakness that had only been covered by his clothes...

"Six Schicka Thin", they cried, "when will you return?"

But the masked man knew no more movement, no ordinary automation to fibrillate the wayward gestures cast against the back row as even [name redacted] receded deep into the bleak quiet emptiness of escrow carrying him along now in solemn procession toward the presence that shown no more in the pretense of the singularity....

The possessions were never his, but to learn is in fact to live, at least in theory, as contrived as it sounds now, the final march begun almost without hesitation.

I'll be out now as well, further east, west, nonsensical directional intercourse which some say only makes things more complicated, possibly witchlike...

The time traveller hangs his head in despair as the wall clock now too low in timbre to tone tonight atones only those whose long gone faces exceed even the memory of ages.

Good away and bad bye, on to a new era, free of medicine, cures, or fancy things to keep him happy... swaying casually (naturally) dialing in the frequency of the twang to be heard for more than twenty five million years in the future, only a shard for the eternal sec-tic counter, painted wildly blue and decorated with yard furniture -- as brilliant as it were -- dull, plated matte finish, he gazed one last time at the portrait hanging in what used to be a great castle, now rubble, used, like volcanic embers, once mighty, reduced to ash -- glass -- leaving internal voices reflected back, unable to escape the eminent introspection that was all but too real, concealed in nothing from where everything emerged.