The end of Time nears. Heat death of the Universe. O. How I have waited for this. But I weep for my children, my benevolent and wise children the posthuman posthumans. They smile in their own ways and accept their fate. Instead they mourn me, for when all light and heat has gone away, only I will be left.
I float in their vast shoals of flickering energy, their corporeal forms long become fetish dolls for the nostalgic, drifting through the electricity of their thought. They ask me what I want to do. I tell them.
It is cold now. The stars are gone. What sound left? My children have burrowed into the infrastructure of reality, seeping into the core of things. They are all times, they tell me. Existing within the dichotomies of Tomorrow, Now, and Yesterday. They have come together, the billion billions of my children into a lightning storm of consciousness. The little god, I call them. They sing to me.
Good-bye, be happy, they tell me. What you seek so urgently, it will come.
Now I am utterly alone.