Certainly not transgressing the boundaries of expectation, the impetus behind the speaking of the final word - the concluding statement just previous to our lapse into blessed, eternal silence - is involuntary. It emerges thus, unstained by intention, through numb, cracked lips; it's inflections slurred, dysphagic, unintelligible. The message it carries loiters in irrelevancy, whilst coherence even on the simplest expressive level quickly falters and fails. Here, at last, with the arrival of this moment, our burdens are relieved of us. The knot of our agonies, our anxieties - so long beyond the reach of our feeble and distended fingers - untangles of its own volition. In response to this interior release, the heavens themselves are unburdened. Torrents of sweetened waters descend to cover us in the condition of our final repose: deeper and more compelling than sleep, more expansive than our hopes ever managed to be, more impenetrable than the blindness that was our most profound accomplishment. With these waters, we are filled: filled to be emptied.

>From the sordid heights of our ambitions to the most squalid depths of desire, nothing proves insoluble; nothing can persist in buoyancy. The treasures of our past are reduced to mere flotsam, providing dumb witness to the drowning of the despot of human reason, perched helpless upon his disappearing throne while waters relentlessly advance.

With this death is ushered a new king into the world. An existence conceived in the most remote regions of our manifestation, and nurtured upon that which we neglect: ideas disowned or withheld from scrutiny, conflicts left unresolved, courses of action not taken - all possibilities we failed to consider. Now, at the very last, it emerges to supplant us in our earthly dominance; its nocturnal silences brought out into the new day to spread like a skin across the entirety of the face of the flooded world, as far as the eye can see.
And sees no more.