The Vanishing

In one hour our life will cease existence from our universe. A cluster of galaxies is called a supercluster. A cluster of superclusters is called a universe. A cluster of universes is called a multiverse. A cluster of multiverses is called—a simulation?

It’s eight-o-clock, I’m sorry to report this, but: the Inkinga has been struck with a devastating force. Our worst fear may be true. I’m sure all of us are thinking to ourselves, “I wish the Inkinga never existed.” It’s funny how that’s the first thought to manifest in our minds, and not that vacuum decay never existed. Such a wonderful machine the Inkinga is, and such horror would destroy it. Why are we upset? The entire purpose of the Inkinga was to be destroyed so it could alert us. Well, I assume we never thought of what to do after it fulfilled its purpose. Ha, it feels like the Inkinga was the final duty of our kind. With it completed, we have no more purpose. An utterly simple trick to have a gigantic lever that reaches past our solar system to be flipped, and which the distance of that transformation to be shorter than the length, and which has a radio at the end of that length, and which sends out a signal to alert our world of our fate, and which will only be possible because the length of the Inkinga was one light-hour while the transformation was one-second. Now what of us? Do we wait around for us to be devoured? Oh, what could possibly await us on the other side? We have pondered on our morality countless times, but have we ever wondered how we would go without a funeral? That there would be none to commemorate our disappearance. The voices from the sky call upon the confirmation of our fate. Soon, we will all, in fact, perish. Oh, my. The obituairies are being littered with names. All our names. Where is it? Where is it written? Where’s my name?

Numerian Funk’d 4918-5024

It feels uncanny. My name stands out from all of us. My name on the obituary. What organism would need to witness their own death to be carved into the walls? They’re fluttering in, thousands by thousands pour in and fill the infinite wall. I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe, I’ll listen to my favorite tune to kill the time. And then in a moment, along with me, all will be gone. Actually, forget that. I think I’ll just lie down here and rest for a while. The clock ticks to eight-thirty-two. Ah, this feels odd. I can’t seem to find it comfortable, something is off. Ah, of course something is off, it’s that inevitable invisible terror that’s headed our way. Maybe with a little more time we would be able to solve the mystery of vacuum decay. Ah, but now I’m only bargaining. I guess, in the end, death treats us all equally. At least, there won’t be any pain for us.

Let us take in the world for what it is this one last time. As the door slides open to the front yard, we see a family playing sports. So blissful that a spontaneous urge to weep emerges within us. “What a beautiful sight!” we think. In cascades, the reminder recalls our attachment to life. Oh, how we wish it were easy to let go of, and how we thought we had already.

A sight that you’ve seen a trillion times and now it is as new as ever. The leaves from the trees fall slowly to the ground. Far slower than you ever noticed. Your palm freezes as you grip the railing and the steps sink. Was everything always so colorful?

The marvelous creatures. Their libedo is out of control. They cannot help but stare at each other. They slowly approach them. What is this? Infatuation. They hesitate. What did they just say? Ah, fucking idiots. A lifetime of experience and they yet don’t know how to ensue intercourse. One look into their eyes, and they step closer. Not for a single moment did they believe they would have understood each other from a glance if it weren’t for this dire circumstance. They passionately express their love as their bodies grow closer and warmer.

Such odd of us. Even in the time of despair, we are concerned about our privacy. We tightly grip each other as we make it home and burst open the door to lie flat on the cushions. We did not think for a single moment that we so easily gave away our dignity for this beauty but fought against giving it to the public. Then, in an instant, our bodies were stripped naked and connected with one another.

The reds in its cheeks grow frivolous with each passing moment. The time is nine-o-clock. And it’s not stopping. Everything is pristine with maroon. Its face oozes with a luscious scent, which took in causing the epithelium to explode and sense all the scents which ever existed or can exist.

Don’t you find it funny? Species have a tendency to procreate when they sense impending doom. Like us, now.

Nine-o-clock, still, it’s time. An hour, a century, a millennium, an eternity must have passed, yet it’s nine-o-clock. You should be dead by now…