Geometry for Ocelots

by Exurb1a

The only noble desire is for the end of desire. Few are brave enough to admit this.

Every sun in the galaxy will be drained and mined and sucked dry of stoyanium, burned barren, filched, fucked in the extreme, your holiness. No more picnics. No more beer. No more conscious carbon nonsense.”

If I stay on this world, every evening I will see that sunset and miss you. I will become a machine with the sole purpose of missing you.

To have a child, a spouse. To worship one’s family as a shrine. To live for routine and purpose. To allocate a special drawer for napkins, and come home at the end of the day to someone who cared about your day. To lay your head on a pillow at night and not see empty space or the particulars of approaching civilisational death, but rather go down into the coddling dark of sleep for eight hours next to a true lover, then wake refreshed and wander off into the new, mild morning where everything is light and possible. To walk about in the world among the peoples of the world and, just for a day, just for an hour, not avoid eye contact with folk on the street for fear they look on one’s face as it is; debased and disgusting, crow-footed, alcoholic, the most vile spectacle of bastard geometry. To feel like a person. Just once.