Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The Module. Mount Taranaki Crater Radar Observatory. Now.
We don’t have any costumes.
We don’t have any anything, just get your bits of shit in place. Wear what you must. Our hours are now, but minutes.
I’m an astrophysicist.
No shit? Behold all that there is of you, I rolled about on a too-many cushioned bed and masturbated on demand for a living. Full disclosure, i did also cure Covid-19 – thank you, thank you… your applause is entirely necessary. But the wanking thing is what got me the very most likes.
This is a nonsense. Lets just fold and die and the world can curdle and foam and… oh shit, can you feel that? My skin is shifting, unrolling beneath of itself. It’s time to… exit. Stage left or maybe right or up into the mould pocked gantry above the curtain or…
We can transmit. I have caressed the circuits. I can play this final of all plays out into the ever beyond. It would mean something, wouldn’t it?
We can, but in all of our existence we have found not but one that will receive. There is nothing out there.
You do not know that.
The world is dead. The universe is dead. It is. Nothing is to be had of this waste any-more. We tried but… there is nothing reaching back out of the nothing.
It is a truth, the sky is dripping and the seas have dried to cradle pools of wuthering plastic filth. But still… come on now, lets put on a show. Lets play to this empty old house.
Ok, let us just. But then, this last show we prime it, right? We record it and fire it off into space. We can do that. That is what we can do. A digital show for the ages. A tiny gift for the quiet endless dark.
Ode to the dish. Our collector… it sought out fragments within the outer regions and it tried… to tell us.
This bitch told us what?
That there is something. But this threadbare lonely old cusp was wrong, wasn’t she. We fall into nothing. We are it. There is not a bit else.
Put your fancy pants on, Calamity… let us perform. Lips up not down. Look at the real… this stage, it is even now parting beneath of our feet.
OK, I’m thinking…
Say no more my love, I know exactly what it is you have in store for this most final of acts… it is most surely… that greatest and most succulent of all farces…