I gaze upon the celestial canvas, where men like Kerouac and King will be glorified for their advancement of the minds and hearts of humanity, and I notice that all matter, even anti-matter, is separate but equal. By the people, for the people can only exist when their are no people. True democracy exists in a state of perpetual nothingness filled with innumerable amounts of pure beauty, both aesthetically and spiritually. Infinitely dense points have gravitational forces so strong that even light can't escape their pull while giant spheres of helium, known as stars, radiate light in every direction. Balance. Tranquility. Zen. I pray to the ethereal deities, the cosmic kings and queens who drink frothy vanilla milky-way shakes. The galaxies spin in a kaleidoscopic pattern, illustrating the architectural abilities of the alpha, the omega, Jesus, Mohammad, Moses, and Krishna-they are all the same. All gods are all gods. They are filled with absolute truth and meaning yet worthless in a movement towards enlightenment. A common misconception is that men are created in god's image yet the reciprocal is true. How egotistical. Saturated images of gods dressed up as men slowly fade away and Orion, the hunter, returns. His belt, three stars wide, contains a nebula, a mother to future stars. To the naked eye it's unseen, but through a macroscopic lens dark hues of purple illuminate the galactic magistrate. The spirals of purple expand to the outer rims of the universe until there is nothing but the infinite indigo encompassing all. Waves of purple flow to the tips of my fingers and toes then back to the crown of my skull. An eye opens. Number three. An eye that glints and gleams even in the absence of light. Staring onward with no intentions, the void stares back. But my vision wanders and the void becomes nothing but a place for my thoughts to settle along with the creamy spindles of senseless smoke seeping through the fabrics of reality. By letting go, I unravel the illusion of control. I want to leave this realm and become unknown, unseen, the slow-dancing silhouette of the world.