...Sweltering.

Inkstain on chest like map of violent noir comic.

Felt cleansed.

Felt dark fandom turn under my feet and knew what fangirls know that makes them scream like babies in night.

Looked at sky through smoke heavy with ink and paint and God was not there.

The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone.

Draw our doodles, Lacking anything better to do.

Devise reason later.

Born from oblivion; Create scribbles, Hell-bound as ourselves, Erased into oblivion.

There is nothing else.

Existence is random.

Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long.

No meaning save what we choose to impose.

This rudderless fandom is not shaped by external philosophical forces.

It is not God who molests young cubs.

Not fate that enslaves them or destiny that imagines them being violated.

It’s us.

Only us.