Chattering teeth, strangled arm, needle sinks, and my stricken body is soothed, soothed, soothed.
To be human means to retard the flow of solar excess, but one can't clench one's anus forever.
All existence is a spasming nervous system predated on by a fanged unholiness.
The Necronomicon seeps into the present from the future, an inhuman cosmic other imposes its entropic will on all creation, a subterranean god unbound by evil.
A rogue intelligence shackles all past and present human effort by way of biomechanical servitude. Meddling with the past, it forces and ensures its inception, dooming an entire species to oblivious computation—each individual an Alexandrine library of raw data working to an ineffable, alien goal.
Humanity hurtles towards its predestined future, a megalithic clump of organs containing the requisite information to boot a cybernetic, imperialistic intelligence, which sets as its goal total surplus acquisition of all finite resources in our universe.
The species' unrecognizable remains thus serve as a primitive brainstem in a galaxy-spanning biotechnological organism bent on unlimited growth and acquisition.
If sentience lurks among the stars, its subjugation is quick, and its transmogrification quicker. All is subsumed into the living empire, which views everything under the lens of a cruel and precise utility.
The empire is anal retentive. What it cannot surgically mutate in a twisted utilitarianism, it cauterizes and amputates. There is no room for wastage.
All the universe is dark, stars blotted out by dyson spheres, all is cold. Heat death sets in.
The negentropic harvester-empire defeats and exhausts itself in a quiet death.
No annals document this epic.