he's in nz

*cries* That...that was beautiful

All you've worked for. All your effort and sacrifice, your toil and hardship, all the good and the bad, every fleeting moment of your existence has been stripped away. You are a man left with nothing, cast adrift into the emptiness of creation, the futility of existence and the desolate oceans of time. Swallowed whole by the maddening abyss of the universe.

And then I'll come for you. And we'll bang.

With herculean effort you begin to steady yourself. A tooth cracks as you bite down. Your fingers gnarl and ache as they force themselves into tight balls. Through blurred, watery vision you can make out your surroundings. The comforts and trappings of your house and livelihood have given way to vast, empty vistas of near impenetrable blackness. A black so vivid that it not only lacks the touch of light, but the touch of existence. Your feeble, taxed mind spins as it attempts to comprehend what seems incomprehensible.

Its in these fleeting moments of clarity and awareness you begin to see what look at like shapes in the blackness. Pareidolia at its most basic form, the mind scrambling to put something in the impossible nothing. The droning is all. The background hum of the universe has taken centre stage.

Seizing a fleeting moment of courage you grasp her shoulder and attempt to turn her towards you. She shrugs off the effort and begins to turn away. A cool wetness rolls down your jawline as the droning continues unabated. Frantically you seize both her porcelain shoulders and attempt to shake her from this fugue state. One shake is all you manage before she comes apart in your hands like old paper, the finer particulate catching an unknown breeze and dancing away.

The same breeze catches your astonished cry and carries it off before you a through. You drop to your knees in the ashen silhouette of your wife. The love of your life now dust running between your fingers. The droning has hit such a pitch and ferocity that it has spilt over in your other senses. Your palms quiver, your vision swims as your retina vibrate just plucked guitar strings. Your very bones feel like they will break free of their fleshy prison to escape whatever is coming.

The pitch increases further, with no sign of slowing or stopping. You feel your hand go clammy, but quickly realise that its not your palm but hers that has lost its warmth. Panic takes residence in your gut causing you to stumble back on the couch, releasing your wife’s hand. The buzz has now become a drone, warbling and incessant. Its volume climbs. A primal dread fills you as the base of your skull begins to resonate in sickly harmony with it.

You stammer your wife’s name, the droning smothering the sound as it leaves your lips. That animalistic dread screams for you to take flight, flee the terrible cacophony of madness that seeks to envelop you like the dark, abyssal waters of the deep ocean. However, your compassion demands that you not leave your wife to drown. She still sits there. Glossy magazine opened on her lap, a limp hand resting palm up on the upholstery.