Objectivism is a joke at his expense. He is in constant flirtation with a roadmap that leads nowhere, a puncture in the fabric. Death like a faraway tree.
There is nothing further for him. He has discovered everything.
Whether a smashed fruit seeping through his hands, or flaking bodies from his dreams gored on his sleeping, Sukuna has stuffed himself full. There are no other seats at the table, but the feast keeps coming, too hungry to stop himself. Not that he'd want to.
He tripped from the womb a pit.
Sukuna sits with his knees up and his arms around them. His chin slumps, his eyes dead. Temperate wind ghosts around him. It plays on his cheeks.
Maybe the Arctic is next.
When he gets up, the cell tower wobbles. He sticks his hands in his pockets and glares over the edge. Sensationalism is strikingly close to romanticism. Sukuna skirts that overlap, unfortunately. He pictures lurching over and splitting across the milky bowl below. Would he land on his feet, like a cat? He is only as good as his impulses.
Along the streets, homeless people gather like small murders. They offer hot chocolate to each other and warm their cups over barrels.
Sukuna walks through unseen, Jesus ignored.
The keening noises people make to the night really aren't all that fortuitous, but he listens anyway, mildly curious.
Chance leads him back where he's been before. He slips in while she is awake and staring. The curtain slips across his face.
