I stand alone.
I then jump forward;
towards future,
nothingness.

The air blows from up north;
antarctic,
like my skin.
And it blows me.

Its painful breath
collides with each corner of self,
every single one of my dark, lone walls,
echoing notes of one;
a looping Si,
an unheard No.

The air escapes my steaming bell jar
by piercing through the top,
the boiling bulb;
letting me see veins;
letting me see red.

It escapes, so do my innards.

The piercing needle,
a black dot on a white sheet of paper.
A sentenceless period;
an accidental ink splat
shot like a bullet
through the peering barrel
of a dry, old pen.

Then the splat fades and splits.

And goes dry.

And goes white.