u/merrymarat

You can’t return it kid. The deal ain’t ever changed, you knew the subscription; well shit maybe you didn’t because how damn ignorant you are; it wouldn’t be the first you'd plea it. Hell it ain’t even your choice anyways, maybe give your folks an earful for the both of us this time. 
But the thing you got is terminal kid. Jesus. I mean have mercy. I never thought we needed a damn manual for this. Can we get one made still?  Shit. Well it ain’t one size fits all anyways or maybe it is but I’ll tell you these things used to be a lot simpler, you know that? Well you actually might’ve figured that out by now. A man could just be a man and a girl just had to look good enough and that was almost sufficient. But you caught a bad bus out. Honestly though I don’t really know when there ever was a good time to arrive. 
But I mean this is unfortunate, yours and my own, our whole situation is just god damn unfortunate. I’m not sure we have the time for this even, and that's just a sick joke. I’m sorry, look, I know you ain’t got a lot to say for this condition of yours, shit only the real annoying ones do anyways, which you’ve been, but for this you're just gonna have to sit pretty and listen up.
This whole thing you’re doing, I mean are you really proud of it? Look at where you’re at, do you even know what in the fuck your feet are moving for. Maybe that’s why you’re going in circles. Whether it's success or failure, people just got an inclination for comfortability in their positions of cluelessness. Stick with me. Think about what it’s like broadcasting your bullshit. You think we wanted your subscription? Well maybe some of us, but I sure as hell could do without it and I’m the one working it. 
 It is utterly exhausting. It really is. Shit I’m even tired of talking, I don’t even get a break. I should really just get this memo’d for next time but I’d hate to have to do something else how busy I am, so I’ll cut to the chase.  
You know even when you think this is over, it’s not. I mean you are signed up for life and after, so don’t think you got a shortcut hanging for you to swing on, but hell why not spice it up this time. I think that’s the thing I hate the most. It just don’t change. I mean how many more times do we have to do this. I sincerely wish I could cancel this for you my friend, it is a shared purgatory. 
And this may be the last time I feel obliged to explain this to you for awhile since I’m certain you don’t even remember the things I say, I mean, I don’t think you even try while all I do is give my god damndest. But I’m an accountant at heart, and I hate to let a record spin smooth. Now I don’t know if you believe in fate, like you got a choice or not, but you certainly are not lacking in them. 
Imagine it this way. We’re almost done I swear it, just humor me. 
 Say you’re a mouse in an infinite maze you have to run, but you’re on a timer, and I’m the hourglass. You can make the turns you like, you could even sit at the start, shit, maybe you could escape if you tried hard enough. But wherever you end at was predetermined by a limit of destinations. Like whether you go in a lake or a hot tub you’re ending up in the water. You get what I’m saying? I didn’t think so. 
Well right now, we’re in the little space before the sand passes through the hour’s neck and I see the grains about to start the race. And oh man, it's a whole lot quicker here. So I guess you could excuse my shortness because I hardly get the chance to blink; if I even could, but I imagine it, just a second of reprieve in the abyss from your beat as a beaver's balls face; 
Y'know I gave up asking questions because I figured the thought itself inspired you a better answer before you went; but really, I don’t think there is an answer. There’s a joke in here somewhere, but it’s hardly funny at all. It is an absurd and misfortunate existence we circle within, maybe it’s closer to a spiral. I think maybe try a prayer, or pray a little harder this time. A Hail Mary to the abyss, with your eyes shut tight and make sure you savor it, because you only get so much time in it, before its lights, cameras, action.

Stella was three years old when her hand first scrawled sound, sporadic transcriptions of a silent misshapen child. Years passed, papers piled, a child’s record of innocence neglected to even the fridge. Every instrument of color nubbed til they were for finger painting. Her mediums appeared the same as Momma; there and then not. 
By eleven her eyes scribed by ears, her hand automated to scroll what looked like eight years of stagnation, a style of regression; some would think it like a raging idiot's hand had found paint. A little girl who didn’t have much to imagine, just an itch to scribble. But her palate was thoughtful, the colors danced in dizzying intention like each piece was meant to move, and their rhythms were caught by eyes of stone in awkward frames. Like if you stared too long you’d lose your footing in the choreography; eyes straining to hear the painted orchestra, a faint note splintered in drawn resonance to the mind. 
Stella found no audience, only a contract paid by the company of the unheard. Her translations paused for exhaustion, she had no dreams. It was just dark in the silence and it made her afraid and when she woke there was still the image of the abyss. Only covered by the new day's symphonies; a world of sensories always drawn back to the black and silent encore. Her world a box, a flat circle in an open closet. 
 No school, her voice traded for vision, just the toil of transcribing the concrete breath of matter and the unseen abstracts of existence. A life of possession, sat in a grove where the roads were mud and rooted paths without tread, just thick carriages of brush grown wild. The tops of trees thin and open to an unpolluted sky which fell bespoken stars in the night who screamed colored sigils, like a choir of the cosmos. The green and rock and soil that circumscribed the cries of a world she did not know, and the macabre reprieve of stillness in her sleep. A holy trinity to their begotten daughter fostered to make life of their image, their voices. 
Momma hadn’t been home as Stella's work had moved to the walls as great murals of genius. Masterpieces of celeste compositions which stretched in dancing dimensions making the inside of the trailer a carnival indiscernible in scale by the noise which slithed with the rhythm of static consuming any inside like a kaleidoscope of arcane voices made tangible. 

It was Stella’s twelfth birthday, she didn’t even know it. The trailer stunk from the outside, not like death, just a sourness of the air like it’d gone still. She woke to a silence she had never heard and an ache inside her. A warmness leaking like her piss had congealed on its way out. The quiet was loud, not as the absence of sound in her sleep, just like something holding its breath; and in it was the sum of every sound ever heard or unheard, waiting to be exhaled by the mouth of time.
A god impossible to capture, something infinite which all exists within yet all are lost too in its immortal march. The great devourer without voice, only a breath sounded to a little girl; a prophetess scripturizing the voices within its domain. A power inexorable to its consent; from  the stars it birthed and let die, to the natures it grew to watch wither. The inevitable beginning and end of all its miscreations recycled to its shadow; all fearful of their end, seeking infinity within the souls of those who can experience the grandeur of their scale; universes, nature, light, yet all still dwarfed in the eternity of time. 

Time seemed to stop as the breath came and bursted through everything all at once and ever to the girl who saw sound, her ears ruptured, and her eyes shriveled in a violating spiral of esoteric infinum. Her body ejected the wastes of her labors like a grotesque stucco, yet her automation began, Stella, a name unspoken, only the act of a vessel. 
In the dark closet she flailed, her body seized as the medium for the symphony of time. She aged, years passing in an instant, her hair and nails twisted and twirled like glyphs which read infinity to the tune of time's breath as Stella took her last. It was black before she could even blink.
 Stella was a supernova. Her body now a composition for eternity's breath, an orchestra abstracted to sight, locked in a forsaken trailer, it’s interior camouflaged by the songs of passing planes; a tent to something so blasphemous that any who saw it would hear the same breath of forever as Stella in their souls through the purgatory of time. 

Stella was three years old when her hand first scrawled sound, sporadic transcriptions of a silent misshapen child. Years passed, papers piled, a child’s record of innocence neglected to even the fridge. Every instrument of color nubbed til they were for finger painting. Her mediums appeared the same as Momma; there and then not. 
By eleven her eyes scribed by ears, her hand automated to scroll what looked like eight years of stagnation, a style of regression; some would think it like a raging idiot's hand had found paint. A little girl who didn’t have much to imagine, just an itch to scribble. But her palate was thoughtful, the colors danced in dizzying intention like each piece was meant to move, and their rhythms were caught by eyes of stone in awkward frames. Like if you stared too long you’d lose your footing in the choreography; eyes straining to hear the painted orchestra, a faint note splintered in drawn resonance to the mind. 
Stella found no audience, only a contract paid by the company of the unheard. Her translations paused for exhaustion, she had no dreams. It was just dark in the silence and it made her afraid and when she woke there was still the image of the abyss. Only covered by the new day's symphonies; a world of sensories always drawn back to the black and silent encore. Her world a box, a flat circle in an open closet. 
No school, her voice traded for vision, just the toil of transcribing the concrete breath of matter and the unseen abstracts of existence. A life of possession, sat in a grove where the roads were mud and rooted paths without tread, just thick carriages of brush grown wild. The tops of trees thin and open to an unpolluted sky which fell bespoken stars in the night who screamed colored sigils, like a choir of the cosmos. The green and rock and soil that circumscribed the cries of a world she did not know, and the macabre reprieve of stillness in her sleep. A holy trinity to their begotten daughter fostered to make life of their image, their voices. 
Momma hadn’t been home as Stella's work had moved to the walls as great murals of genius. Masterpieces of celeste compositions which stretched in dancing dimensions making the inside of the trailer a carnival indiscernible in scale by the noise which slithed with the rhythm of static consuming any inside like a kaleidoscope of arcane voices made tangible. 

It was Stella’s twelfth birthday, she didn’t even know it. The trailer stunk from the outside, not like death, just a sourness of the air like it’d gone still. She woke to a silence she had never heard and an ache inside her. A warmness leaking like her piss had congealed on its way out. The quiet was loud, not as the absence of sound in her sleep, just like something holding its breath; and in it was the sum of every sound ever heard or unheard, waiting to be exhaled by the mouth of time.
A god impossible to capture, something infinite which all exists within yet all are lost too in its immortal march. The great devourer without voice, only a breath sounded to a little girl; a prophetess scripturizing the voices within its domain. A power inexorable to its consent; from  the stars it birthed and let die, to the natures it grew to watch wither. The inevitable beginning and end of all its miscreations recycled to its shadow; all fearful of their end, seeking infinity within the souls of those who can experience the grandeur of their scale; universes, nature, light, yet all still dwarfed in the eternity of time. 

Time seemed to stop as the breath came and bursted through everything all at once and ever to the girl who saw sound, her ears ruptured, and her eyes shriveled in a violating spiral of esoteric infinum. Her body ejected the wastes of her labors like a grotesque stucco, yet her automation began, Stella, a name unspoken, only the act of a vessel. 
In the dark closet she flailed, her body seized as the medium for the symphony of time. She aged, years passing in an instant, her hair and nails twisted and twirled like glyphs which read infinity to the tune of time's breath as Stella took her last. It was black before she could even blink.
Stella was a supernova. Her body now a composition for eternity's breath, an orchestra abstracted to sight, locked in a forsaken trailer, it’s interior camouflaged by the songs of passing planes; a tent to something so blasphemous that any who saw it would hear the same breath of forever as Stella in their souls through the purgatory of time. 

The End.