I felt time before I slipped into consciousness.
Inside of me I carried the seed of paradise, hugged and kept warm by every particle that made me up, at that point of existence. I was the dot, the smallest composition at the center of existence, the nuclei, the rachis of the palais de sainteté. And I felt time. It came in waves that washed me to the core and rippled, sending my molecular entropy into momentary heaps of ecstasy.
I remember my death. I remember when Satan finally revealed his face to me—my face to me. His silver blade against my neck; my soul gathered in a pulsating tumor that ricocheted against his crotch. I don't, however, remember just when I realized that our final duomachy was to bring annihilation to the universe. I guess at least my solipsism hasn't failed me.
I wonder how many times we've done this? This cannot be the first time, for I know how it goes. The seed of paradise germinates, blossoms, bleeds into a continuum of existence; a straight line. That's when duplication happens, the linear existence loses its center and births a perpendicular duplicate, making for a gammadion, a plane on which you and I are both extracted from the wound on Adam's rib.
You glare at me and I glare at the sun, In my liquid form I squint with my internal eyes and behind the blazing sun atop us, I can almost make out a world beyond our gelid proto-existence. A blue print for the future, if you will. I stretch in my mold and watch you ripple back and forth to the caresses of wind, viscous serum and puss . Inverse affusion. The fluid of you fights back against the walls of the mold, attempting and failing to break free from dimensions. Who could blame you? Dimensionalisation is the point of no return in this creation shenanigans, and while the infinite functions are nothing but a trace grafted onto our subconscious, it still weighs heavy on the soul.
I solidify before you do, and my proverbial cotyledon stretches and pumps pools of coal tar and blood into my 5 ends. I feel numb. I sit and watch you become the you I remember you to be, while I wonder about 70 something untouched houri.
We will wander, sin. We will marinate in inevitable nihilistic dormancy for times. We will kill ourselves in premeditated seppuku and reach above the rest of our mirror simpletons. Like obsessive artists we will destroy god only to recreate him a better, more refined self.
I know how it goes, I have done this before.