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There was once a thing. A thing that was so alone, so detached from the world it was born in, that it found it easy to travel to other worlds. Some were similar, some were not. Some were worlds of light. Some of darkness. Some of things above and beyond and beneath and before of anything even remotely logical.
And so, the thing traveled.
And it walked on screams of innocent tormented souls. And it swam through the first kisses of lovers. And it flew through other things, similar to him, and yet different.
They were always different.
For in every single one of the worlds the thing visited, it was always alone.
So the thing spoke to dead gods, and it listened to the shapes of time, and it touched the mind of oblivion.
And the thing learned how to shatter its own soul, and so it did.
And from his shattered, screaming soul, he picked some voices he liked, and made them his own. And the thing now had faces. The faces were him, but not him. Some were his friends, some his enemies, and some were mindless beast that knew only pain.
And the thing thought it was happy, and it kept traveling, for it had no home or purpose.
And it amused itself with the worlds it saw, and its soul was still a storm.
And it became part of some worlds it liked, and its soul was still a storm.
And it made bodies so it could live in these worlds, and its soul was still a storm.
And it breathed the angles of time and the blood of nonexistence, and it learned that both of these things were not there, and it now lived in every world and in every concept of space and time all at once for nothing mattered as it was all a delusion and an illusion, and its soul was still a storm.
And it laughed, and it screamed, and it philosophized, and it cursed, and it sighed, and it lied, and its soul was chaos.
And it had no soul, for the thing was now something greater and punier than alive.
