The cup is hollow. I have a metallic aftertaste if you drink me up. Pour in this cup joy, and the joy lasts till the thirst of time is quenched. At the bottom, if you let me simmer, my walls melt and mingle. I am bitter and I am tired. Drained by the melodramatic spurts of bubbles fizzing up to the surface, I am indifferent.
Pour rage generously, let it spill freely. I will boil and thrash, I will be intensely. And when I evaporate a mellow moss will form. This residue is me. I am the impurity hanging on a whisper at the end of a prayer. I am rust.
Drain from the netherworld the terror of drowning men. Let it drip as seawater from the mouth of a beached and bloated corpse into me. Unto me. To the brim. I will hold it starkly as the roots of willows grip the earth. I will spout around and taint the colours of those around me, a sickly oil suffocating the toads in a pond. When, inevitably, this volatile concoction explodes, once the nauseating fumes dissipate, I will be standing there.
A cold indifference hugs the bark of the birch, which no winter sun will pierce. I am immaculate. I am a shroud. I am the veil smothering the face of a stillborn in his coffin. I am the noose which separates head from body, I am the noose which links head to body.
You may ask, who am I? Am I the moment? Or am I the lingering taste?
I am the void.