It is the End

It is the end of human time and there is a bird carrying a thread through the deepnesses of space. It is holding such a fine thread, and it is on fire. And the bird knows nothing, but its own skill at survival. It is doing this thing, perhaps for you, perhaps for everything. It has this final skill, your one hope. Though you are gone, you are not there. Only the bird is now. And its soul is boiling. It is mad with its life, which feels now like your life, and you feel very fortunate that you can wish on this as everything is ending, fortunate that you can hope that it makes it, that it reaches the point where more survival is possible. Although no one knows what that is. Where something impossible opens as light opens. Impossible light.