False Vacuum

My microcosmos is really a false vacuum. It may eventually collapse. I read an article floating in the wind. I become an unwritten novel. I watch the ants carry the breadcrumbs into the dismal soil leading into another world. I look outside seeing pockets of pain. I yearn to jettison out of my world on a jet. A long voyage around the liquid abyss from which silent screams emanate. The light dims outside and I wait for deliverance from Epic Error. All may eventually collapse into scurrilous beliefs created by scoundrels. Am I greater than the sum of my fragments? I'm too exhausted to answer this. Persistence is futile. The King of Pain is omnipresent.