He is eternal

Not in a forever kind of way

But in a way where his words leave the echo chamber, and piggy back on the atmosphere.

They find purchase on the edge of the blue sky, and there on the verge of emptiness they listen to the vacuum (of space) and speak to eachother.

“What a familiar sound” the constenants say.

“It’s what we listened to all that time before we existed, and it’s what we will listen to after we die.” says the single vowel.

(Don’t vowels think they have it all figured out.)

So there his fuck sits. On the edge of the world. Contemplating within itself, and in a romantic way it’s contributing something — not something monumental, but something eternal.

Only his fuck could do that.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.