What follows is in some regards a prose poem, it has existed in many forms for several years, this is merely its latest incarnation. It exists because it was originally written in it’s original formed to explain a concept to myself involving a book I have not yet written and one which I have. It has existed for longer than the latter and there is no guarantee the former will ever come to pass. But a switch went off in my head yesterday which has made it more likely it will. This lead me to spend some time going though extensive notes and files. Which brought me to this, once more.

Some of you may find it interesting, or intriguing, or possibly maddening. I really could not say which is more likely. For those who do , enjoy, for those to whom this may all mean nothing, well I could explain more but I won’t.

It…

It watches…
It would be wrong to say it is waiting.
Waiting would imply it was waiting for something. That it desired something. Desire is an emotion, want is an emotion. Emotions are not something it experiences. To have emotions requires a frame of reference for emotion is a reaction.
It does not react.
It does not desire.
It does not want…
It does however hunger, though what it hungers for it could not describe, not by any frame of reference you could understand.
How could you understand. You, a child of the universe. How could you understand what it hungers for.
How could you relate to a thing that lays beyond your universe.
Beyond any universe.
A thing of the void that was there before the universe was born. The void that will be left when the universe collapses in on itself into the endless frozen heat death that awaits it. How could you even envision such a thing.
How could such a thing envision you…
Yet it watches…
As it has always watched. Since the vital spark of existence gave birth to the very universe in which you exist. It watches from beyond infinity. An infinity expanding ever outwards, but never growing closer… Distance, is a thing of the universe, not that which lays beyond its bounds.
It is as close as a whisper and as far as darkness.
It watches even now, watches in the eternity between seconds, for time too has no meaning, for time too is of the universe. A function of gravity, of matter, of existence…
It watches, and it hungers…
It hungers not to be an abstraction, a thing of the void, a thing outside of time, outside of space, outside reality.
It hungers as another did once.
And pulses
Red.