Something.

Something ENOrmous

A mass cutting through his eyelids from the outside. Pushing them open, parting them from each other. Exposing the naked eye to itself. It mustmustmust get into his eyes and it will. Into his eyes and into him. He's an empty vessel at the bottom of this mass, imploding under it. Imploding first at his eyes, letting it into himself through them, resisting at first and soon giving into the inevitability.

His eyes are open now, the mass flooding him, filling him in, it being what he sees.
Furthest away from him in his view are mountains. Far away. Dark and featureless. Masses of land. Physical shapes in their simplest form. Ancient. Unchanging. Giants.

Between the mountains and him lies a harbor. The ocean water is ink, dried up in a thick layer, black-blue and solid. Ships trapped in this goo, cringing.

Piers are slicing far into this ink-filled harbor. On these piers are structures, thousands of gigantic metallic threads twisting and spiraling around each other, forming thick layers of industrial webs. Structured chaos. Each thread a trail of an overcharged particle dashing and coiling uncontrollably, frozen in metal. This metal is polished and shiny, it's surface reflecting dimly the twilight sky, each cloud in it a piece of wool soaked in the curling arterial blood of the no more visible sun. Each cloud suspended motionlessly high up in the dissolved bluetinted nothingness of the skydome, so high up that if u were to jump up to try and grab it u'd simply freefall thru the distance forever.

Right infront of his eyes is a small patch of grass and a rocky shoreline. He is lying on his side curled up in fetal position, arms hidden inside a wool jacket that is also pulled over the knees, on moist grass under a tree, blades of grass cutting into his left cheek.

Time stopped.

Nothing moves.

Nothing.

<What is this place? Where am I?>, Shplazzle thinks. How long has he been asleep on this shoreline? Is this the end of time? The last moment before all he sees is torn apart; the final layer of a painting being looked at before it is shredded with blades and set on fire and stomped at by someone completely and totally gwabonkled, most likely the creator of the painting itself. This last moment being looked at by someone who woke up into it on it's shoreline, and this moment is trying to save itself by imprinting itself into his memory, seeking desperately asylum in his mind, seeking to preserve itself there, immortalized, trying to survive trying to flee from it's destroyer, into Shplazzle, pushing in squeezing in in in into his eyes, dialating the pupils till they're bigger than his eyes bigger than his head bigger than his body bigger than the patch of grass he is on bigger than the harbor the mountains the sky bigger than everything-everything-everything filling-filling-filling him in till he becomes this last moment, diffused into it, strange little creature, gone,

dissolved

completely

if only just for one-one-one single moment.