The darkness, the dark numbness of it all . . . waiting in the black . . . and for what? All around me there was . . . there was . . . it was nothing. I swam, no, I wasn’t moving really, I was in, but that’s not right either. Nothing, terrible nothingness, and myself. Not next to, not inside, but just being and this wall of infinite not being.
They would call my name, they had to, but until that awaited voice would ring, and until the silence and the blackness and the numbness all faded away . . . all it would take is a voice. I can come once I hear that voice, I can come back again.
Until then, until that voice returns and calls me, I must wait, motionless in the dust, in this forgotten place, seeing and knowing nothing. Let time roll his countless eons over me; I will still tarry here.
Tale Told 