Our minds collide, and as our bodies meet, they evaporate into thin air. Only white ash is left on the ground, surrounded by a dark sky that slowly reacts with it, turning it grey.
Multiple shades of grey transition throughout this obscure atmosphere as a neutral stare is reached, a mode of the average fossil grey nuance is reached,
and universal equilibrium is at its peak. But as we travel externally, out of this subjective sphere of carelessness, we find a new hidden world.
A field of rye, with children running towards the cliff and falling into the pit of monochromacy and amnesia. But further in the field is a single tree, behind which are the two boys sitting.
The same two boys that faded into nothingness a few moments back. Sitting next to each other, holding hands, calmly gazing into the sunset, time passes.
Dry leaves abandon the tree, kids yell in agony as they trip into the hole of forgetfulness; the red giant augments, the rye catches fire, the tree combusts. All is ablaze, all is dust.
The two persons sit in the middle of the fiery grass, admiring the flaming florets of pure energy, their hold tightens, tears flow, blood boils, smiles form, and the sun swallows them up.
They silently lament as they form their last memory, their last life, their last harmony, their last melody, the last sunset.
Their souls dissociate from their bodies, absolute detachment, and they travel back to their birth place, the cosmological centre, the omnipresent Shade of Grey.
They fuse, and go back to what they were, ash. The constructed cinders let out an enormous blow of wind, tightly packed sinusoid sound waves emerge from them, blinding radiation is let free.
The grey sky is annihilated, the red giant is thrown back out of the omniverse, everything is demolished.
And slowly, the last residue of the universe is left in solitude, pieces of an antique person.
May the universe reconstruct.