In my eternity, I vaguely recall the experience of being human. I reimagine what that was a forever ago, the inability to ever exist in complete oblivion that is met so close in that moment of suffering; it is endearing. That moderate living was but a failure to counteract an unquantifiable existence of pleasureless omnipotence. I take a gander at my latest imagination, inspired by the many joys of the human experience. Turf of shredded flesh and entrails, the wretched smell of silicate trees that are ever yet so endearing in their beauty. Rocks of bone marrow liquified and molded like sculptures, art being humanity’s only weapon against conciousness. I stare at a mountain engulfed in darkness and can’t help but feel the faces of a million damned staring back. The excitement of an amusement park, the joy of fear and weightlessness a roller coaster gives you. At last, I feel like I am at home. The masochist's playground, I feel like a human child again. Sadness overwhelms me, for inevitably, this feeling is not forever, but the absence of it is.