Requiem for My Sister

So, Sister, I had an idea one day, I had a Might-y kind of an idea about Things and how and why we're all trapped here in this world. It was the kind of idea that no one else would listen to, but which is Right Up Your Alley.   And you, miserable Cosmic Thing, you wanted none of it. You cut me off, said you'd had quite enough of proselytization and that no one, not even me, had better come around telling you How Things Are.   So I didn't tell you.   But. Because I am still your Sister, I'll tell you now. You'll listen tonight, won't you? As we sit here together on the veranda with our tea and incense? You can't stop listening, dear Sister, because I'm writing this especially for you, and I know you crave the attention like oxygen as you rage and pace within your tiny airtight legacy.   I'll make it all about you. You'll soak up every word. I know you will, because we are the same. Poor Cosmic Things. And as we stand together in permanent separation and stare into the second Maw, it becomes clear that it's all as true as any story could be. Funny old world, isn't it?  

"We could have been such friends."

-- Morticia Addams

  Well, look, now. The Moon is rising above the city. A Wailing Giftus. Perfect.   Once in the long-ago, someone, some poor sorry sap of a god, had a desperate idea about How Things Should Be. This god's thoughts twisted and curled in upon themselves until finally, no other potential could penetrate the knot it had made to protect itself from the whirly swirly Slurry.   There was a First Maw, which sucked existence into the knot.   Even gods must pray upon Some Thing.   This was followed by a Great Grinding Gizzard, which crunched and chewed and pulverized the morsels until it had no probabilities to speak of.   This god's heart is in its throat, Pulsing, pounding, one thump one pump one beat imprints the god's own time upon the flattitudes and makes them fit to eat.     And lastly the Second Maw, where we find ourselves tonight.   Did the god anticipate such trouble in the tube?   Any god which wants to remain a god must sacrifice itself to pieces. Intergenerated genus and genii split from the source and grow into their own minds within. Most adore the host, but others hidden in the knots still glimpse with the memoreye of the god through to the rest of the not hidden. The journey from Maw to Maw is fraught with horrific possibilities.   Expunge them! Launch the germs out 'ere they corinterrupt the god's perfect pulse! Insidious caught in sinibus and sneezed across the skin: cast the demons out!   In we came and out shall we go again, into our ownhowmgrown fountasees, we who refute the vibrations of the god's incancarceration, we are the next iteration.   You and I, never to share a sphere, but perhaps we can spare a wave for one another should our Is meet again across the kindred planes.