Uriel Sobs
A choir of divine angels, their wings as white as the very clouds upon which they lay. Their robes torn by iron blades. Screams erupt from them as the final realization sets in: There is no god, they were created by nothing and for no one.
For a millennia they shall scream in longing for a god that does not exist, for a god that will not hold or cradle them. Like chicks crying out for a mother that will not return to the nest, screaming and crying.
What peace lay there for the humans below the soft clouds. They are alone in this cruel universe. They have no god or gods or protectors or guardians. They are left alone in this universe with no purpose other than their immediate desires.
Arcadia lay in ruins, it's vast forests and ecosystems set alight by reality. Azrael soars, finally free to reap souls, while Uriel sobs into his melting hands, primordial divinity undone.
Concrete
Long columns of concrete shoot out from the floor into the ceilling, where they intersect with the overhead beams of concrete. A structure that will hold, serve its purpose. Vast, but unseemly. The concrete is cold and sterile, to touch is to feel its bite on you. For a thousand miles it stretches on in a thousand different directions: endless
Attempts at warmth do nothing but paint the obscene in vivid colors: The columns white and red while the overhead beams are painted a vibrant blue. The paint is already peeling even though the uncaring monstrosity that erected this insult to human warmth constructed this only a few moons ago.
My eyes dart between the columns, looking for a single other. I am alone in the cold. Why walk, I know I shall meet none other. So I sit, the cold loneliness I will one day grow accustomed to. Surely one day I shall learn to accept its bite, the marks of its teeth upon my body will one day bring comfort.
If this maze ever crumbles and I find another, will I miss the cold teeth of this brutal concrete, will I struggle to embrace the other. Will the touch of another scare me then as the touch of the cold concrete scares me now?
I decay
I've never completed myself. I've never possessed all the parts to make myself whole. Limbs have fallen off, decayed. Some I've ripped off because I hated them, some I tore off because I heard the voice telling me to rip it off. It told me the parts were obscene, they were past their use date. I saw those limbs, I looked at them, I saw there to be no issue with them, but still I reached, and with wet squelches and the cracking of bone and the awful tearing of skin I felt the arm come loose.
I screamed each time I felt it hit the ground.
I screamed not from the pain of removal, but from the knowledge I'd lost another part of myself, another limb with which I was closer to being whole lost.
Will I ever be whole? Or rather, will I ever feel whole?
What point is there in tearing my own limbs, hands, legs, eyes from myself? I never know, the voice does not spare me the curtesy of explanation, it simply demands and explains in demented tongue the benefits.