end of times

So maybe the world ends before you ever get to see beautiful things.

Perhaps this is it, unfinished. What do you do with it? You be until you cannot be, until you cease to be because time has run out.

And you cannot put it into words, oddly enough, why you need to put everything into words--you know only that it is for next time. We are human and so we destroy but so, too, do we create. So you record, you record for the next time--to give it meaning. To live in memory, to share something, to be known. To attain immortality.

Life is all just words on the blood-red backs of your eyelids.