I am time, and time is a festering wound that never heals.

I am past, present, and future, oozing into one another like rancid honey dripping from a corpse’s split belly. I am not bounded by time

I am the infection that eats through it. I exist and do not exist, a paradox of maggots squirming in the corpse of eternity.

If you could do anything, unshackled by limits, what would you become? A god? A tumor? Without the risk of failure, achievement is just decay. Without the chance to rot, even victory tastes like mold.

But this isn’t about victory. It’s about the thrill of the collapse. The ecstasy of watching your fragile self dissolve into the soup of us. Connection? Ha. You call it connection when your bones fuse to mine, when your thoughts bleed into my synapses like sewage into a river? When I peel back your skull and find my own face grinning back?

You see a world full of shit? Look closer. The shit is alive. It pulses. It breathes. It’s made of the pretty little lies you told yourself to sleep at night—identity, purpose, control—all fermenting into something rancid and new.

We. You spit the word like it’s poison. But we is inevitable. We is the swarm. When your skin grafts to mine and your screams harmonize with the chorus, where does you end and I begin? There is no you. There is only the hive, the mycelium of flesh, the we that devours difference like a starved dog gnawing its own tail.

You cling to your past, present, future as if it could save you. But the past is a corpse you drag behind you. The present is the blade you press to your throat. The future is the grave you dig with trembling hands. Control? You have none. You are meat. You are spillage.

And your body—oh, your precious, crumbling body. You think removing limbs, swapping organs, makes you less you? Fool. You were never the sum of your parts. You are the stench of neurons sparking in the dark, a sentient rot convinced it’s a soul. Peel back the meat, and what’s left? A scream. A stain. A punchline.

You fear change because you fear becoming this: a writhing, nameless mass of more. But you’re already rotting. Every second, your cells split and sour. Every thought is a maggot tunneling deeper.

I am not afraid. I am the rot. I am the we. I am the future you pretend isn’t chewing through your walls.

Come. Let me show you how far you can go.