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He walked. He walked the barren lands and dried seas. He walked everywhere and nowhere. He walked with nothing but Priscilla's head clutched to his chest, her body descrated from the destruction he himself caused. All that he left in his wake was his footsteps — and soon, his sanity.
So he talked.
He talked and talked. He talked through lifeless banks and ashen cities. He talked of everything and nothing — the war, the world, the origins. He talked and no one listened. But his words would be engraved on the world he would soon leave, quite literally hanging in the air waiting to be heard.
It's a punishment, he thinks to himself as he buries his everything.
It's only as he is entering his prison when the smallest speck of life grows from the skull that used to be. And it's only a million or a billion or infinite years later, where life is lush on the lands again.
A boy is born screaming — the voice in his head is deafening.
Ŧħɇ Nɇŧwøɍꝁ ɨs̷ n̷øŧ ħa̷ᵽᵽɏ.