The void isn’t colorless. It’s something out past violet in the skein of impossible colors only mantis shrimp can see. An inky gloom of hydrangea, azalea, and nightshade. Charcoal green of midwinter rot. Pink of a weeping wound. Heat lightning blue. The skies are rancid river water.
The void isn’t silent, but the screams echo more throughy skull than the chasms of endless stone. My thoughts ain’t my own, but they own my attention like a torrential satori. How much of that gloom lives in my eyes? Is it fog or histoplasmic scars around the tender stalk of my optic nerve?
There’s no one to ask. No way to compare and I’m lost in this completely subjective space with no chance of objectivity. Neurosis of the abandoned.