Art (I Hope No One Expects Joy)

The goal for the future is a freewrite with words that ring like church bells, signifying a new hour, not words that dig downward shoveling cold soil, preparing to bury death. Bells ring when times change. I don't see why I keep writing things like what I've written here (don't bother):

Absolutely postively nothing left except these words and now these but they may be filling up this space but they come from nowhere and they have no mass and so no matter what they may light up now, the energy runs out. Look at it isn't it amazing how I am writing on this fragile bread, repeating my thoughts over and over, hoping I take my own bait, poisoning everything with words, repeating repeating repeating. I feel nothing around me even though it's all there. There fire is out and the world is apocalyptic. Traces of what was, they linger, but they hide and shimmer only when the sun opens his eyes to peak at the earth, to see if it's still there. Hopefully soon it will be gone. This was a step in the correct direction. Destruction. Life's end. No more birds, no more songs. No more man-made musical instruments vibrating the ears of children and adults who should be spending their time doing so much more than what they do. They were never apologetic. Everything is covered in dark ash and when it rains it becomes wet and mixed. When it dries it crisps and breaks again, derivative derivative derivative and zero in the end no matter how much power you started with. Doing art shouldn't be taken for granted. Art shouldn't be taken for granted. I wish I could do art whenever I wanted. And I mean my own, not the art of the universe that begins where I end. That would suggest that I am just a reaction to the world around me, and therefore I do not exist. I am just a boundary that stops the universe from leaking out. If I step back, I may expose it. If provoked, I may do just that. It will fall out of time and the rest of time will be free and I will walk down that road in peace.