The world ended without noise.
And that was the most obscene thing.
The sun hung like a sick eye over a horizon of cyclopic ruins. His light wasn’t warm: it was defying. Cities stripped into layers of dust and stone, leaving only colossal, twisted and beautiful shapes, like sculptures of war torn down over time. Sarnak stayed on. Indomitable, stubborn, as if geography itself refused to let her go.
The sands were red and black, iridescent, grains of crushed history. Beneath them lay temples open like desolate bodies: columns that arched at impossible angles, reliefs of muscular warriors in eternal combat, figures frozen in gestures of strength that defy logic. Each stone seemed to vibrate, as if it contained the energy of a world that was no longer supposed to exist.
Heaven wasn’t sky anymore.
It was a geometry of scars and overlapping layers. The stars flashed with a heartbeat, some followed the living with care, others deformed like bodies suspended in impossible gravity. There were no constellations there, only conscious presences, observing, measuring.
Amongst the ruins walked human forms, covered in ashes and symbols carved into flesh and bone. Warriors without war, prophets without vision, murmurs that distort the air. Every word was an impossible gesture, doubling reality into angles that shouldn’t exist.
In the heart of the city stood the tower, broken but imposing.
A black column, covered in symbols that changed places when no one was looking, pointing to the sky in a defiant gesture. Inside, time wasn’t flowing: it thickened, piled up like stale fat around a heart that refused to stop. Shadows didn’t move: they left marks, scars on the stone.
There stood the last witness, a being bent for centuries, leaning on a gun nailed to the ground, not as defense, but as an anchor. Her open eyes were looking at something that wasn’t there.. or that was everywhere.
Beyond the wounded sky, beyond the chaos and ruin, something has awakened.
Not a god. Not a monster. Only the naked consciousness of the universe, ancient and cold, examining Sarnak as a sculptor examines a failed sketch. He measured strength, violence, sacrifice, and found everything redundant. He observed the beauty of flesh facing the vacuum and recorded it as a persistent anomaly.
And then he hesitated.
Maybe life wasn’t a mistake.
Maybe it was an over imagination.
That’s why the world wasn’t destroyed.
He was frozen in his most arrogant gesture.
The tower cracked. The sands rose in spirals that defy gravity, forming impossible figures: warriors kneeling before forces that recognized neither honor nor victory. The city was sealed, not as a punishment, but as an unfinished work.
As consciousness retreated, the witness felt a terrible certainty pierce through his mind: force, violence, and ambition were nothing but drafts, echoes of gestures too great for his own world.
Since then, when the wind breaks through the ruins and vibrates the reliefs of colossal and impossible spiral figures, prayer is not heard.
Just the deep, grave, endless echo of a universe deciding if it’s worth dreaming again with flesh and force.