Hermann Dot.

Each one is there but only in periphery. As you look at it, try to focus, it fades away fleeting in the spaces between. The gaze is too intense — you can only ever catch it for a brief second — a flickering smatter of life. But as each little dot disappears and you move on to the next a new one replaces it.

A new Dot appears now, light at first, like the rest, but its soft edges harden and it spreads itself into solidity. The mark, once there, can never be erased, never undone. It hampers the effect and the beauty is lost.

This is eternity. The solid, permanent smear; a bastardisation of the flittering cacophony of human life; a firework that never melts into the night but remains, blinding, burning into the retina until the stars are all gone and a plain black sheet strangles the air.

We ache for eternity; hanker for immortality, but that beautiful concept is false, if we had it we would burn for the opposite, even the sun will die. Eventually. Live long nihilism. Live long mortality.