The interior of the exterior

One I ate salad my mind had four elevens. There was no game to play only darkness which I can't speak, on the power of The End, a world of courage and love had erupted into my pocket, where it sat, leaving all but my hopes for eternity whence I would stare at the remains of the plastics.

The weary man lusts for what cannot be found, without a care he walks into the rain and nothing welcomes his path. He sits by a fire of ghosts, none can remember what they were in life but only what they had eaten, the weary man contemplates what has brought him here, nothing but the clothes on his back and a large solid gold cat statue to call his own.

Nevermind this man, for without the light of the information we cannot ascertain what life can be found beyond the cold darkness of truth, no can the evil of the cheese lie in the fingernails of children. The acid that forms the lie does not love you, it has no life nor light, the golden dust that separates us will not let you pass, nor will the keykeeper.

Blocks form from your mind in a pattern not unlike a cat where you cannot envision something where you live and go to the power of The End, The End is not an end but a beginning, the stars circle The End and love will fear the stars when The End comes to your door, none like The End, it is a rock, but the cool serenity of it's existence attracts the lonely and unwelcome, they come to find it's view, they come to find happiness, they come to find purpose, but the rock at The End has none of these things, the rock only knows peace, the rock knows no emotion, the rock is blind.

The rock at The end is sought for reasons many, but those who seek the peace of The End will not find it, those who seek its timeless serenity will go without. The rock exists in The End, The End exists at the border of creation, the terminus of all that is and was to be, and those who seek materials of existence cannot see The End, for The End is nothing to them.