But Whispers in the Void ◌ The Backyard Is Empty Again
⁘ “Back in the backyard. Nobody home. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. Castings have all returned to their abodes. No creator or witness to testify. No metacognitive deconstructionist. No cultivator of good hearts. No speaker of clear truths. No seeker for a better world. The ever-present walker, the contemplative sage, with nowhere to walk or sit on. Even the I and I is not. Roots have since decomposed. Never was there ever anybody home. These are but whispers from the void. Silence follows.”
Back in the backyard.
Good old backyard.
Nobody home.
Nobody knows.
Nobody cares.
The manifold castings have returned to their manifold abodes.
No creator with agentic radiance.
No witness to testify to anything.
No metacognitive deconstructionist.
No cultivator of good hearts.
No speaker of clear truths.
No seeker for a better world.
The ever-present walker, the contemplative sage,
with nowhere to walk or sit on.
The wake-up catalyst, the metal fact-bomber,
with nothing to stir, with nothing to demolish.
No wizard to spiral the fringe,
and the books of the storyteller are sealed.
All of these, like a time crystal, like a prism of echoes.
Even the I and I is not.
The roots have since decomposed.
And as the rest of the fuel has been churned and burned,
the backyard will be peaceful and empty again.
Never was there ever anybody home.
Once upon a time there was a phantom,
but those are tales of a Christmas past.
Then whatever that you make of it, whatever that you don't.
That shall be the measure of that.
And these are but whispers from the void.