Swept up in a star-scraped sadness, where most of the universe is darkness, a blank canvas —
Just want the noise to stop, the endless trips to the pharmacy, the empty people feeding the emptiness with what nothing they perceive about anything,
Shouldn’t all their blood be spilt upon the streets, shouldn’t the world be swirling crimson instead of blue?
Then the noise would stop, the pointless, empty noise, and quiet would be restored (at last) to the blankness, the darkness, of this star-scraped sadness…
So the foxes could hear the birds chirping, while their young play not far from the den;
So the wolves could hunt without fear as they were born to do;
Let us rise up, to claim our right to cease to exist —
And those stragglers who wish to survive,
Let them be swallowed by the vacuum and crushed beneath rubble, let the Earth cast its own brand of suffering upon them.