There is a net, somewhere above the sky, of gold and dreams and happenstance. It shimmers. It is full of light. It is beautiful.
There are angels at its every corner. They hold it high. They feed it with their strength.
It is time for sleep. One by one, the angels disengage. They wing away to their transcendent beds, and wonder,
“Is there that in beauty that needs no angels to sustain?”
In the morning, they will know. The net will hang there, singing, or it will fall to rest, tangled and broken in the limbs of trees, on the earth below.
There is a city where the people are no longer human. They were, once. But they did not heed the warning labels on their video games. Now they are mad, animalistic killers. They are gaunt. They are muscular. Their forms are sleek. Their heads are like beasts. They leap on one another. They rip out guts, hearts, lungs with their human grinding teeth. They never die. It’s just a game to them. They don’t want to kill. They just need meat.
There are men in masks who watch them all. Who keep them safe. Who keep them tame.
It is time for sleep. One by one, the masked go to their beds. They curl up in the darkness and do not listen to the roaring in the night and the pounding on their walls. They pull their pillows over their heads and wonder,
“At night, when I do not watch them, are they capable of death?”
There is a ring in the center of the sun. It was taken from a woman’s finger. It is made of gold. It does not burn. It does not sleep. But it is circular and endless. In many ways, that is the same.
While it watches, the world is incapable of ending.