We played telephone. Each person wrote one paragraph.
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We’re spinning backwards down the golden days. The sun and stars blur overhead, scorched sands glowing with their trapped radiance. The watch ticks grow ever more frantic as infinity crawls past. A tower carved of glass and bone sits in the distance, blood splattered on the walls to mark obscene powers. The world collapsed to dust, the great works of man reduced to rubble. It is with trepidation that we consider the device. It is with trepidation that we consider the supposed inevitability of entropy. Purpose hangs heavy in the air. Time was constant. Now, it is a weapon.