One moment, you're scattered across her room, just another insignificant speck in a space that wasn't designed for you. The next, you're in her hand as she's contemplating the weight of the universe itself. She ponders your existence, your purpose, your meaning. Not out of cruelty, but out of curiosity. What does it mean to be real? To be seen? To matter?
And then, in an instant, you don't.
Her hand closes, her foot descends, her mouth opens. You're flattened, swallowed, rubbed against her skin. Because in this world, she defines what you are. She defines what you mean, And right now, you mean nothing. Or everything. It's all the same to her.
You're just a tiny in her world, but what is she's just a tiny in another? What is there's something out there right now, holding her in its hand, wondering the same fucking thing?
Power is relative and scale is infinite. And meaning? Well, at this moment, meaning is whatever the fuck she decides it is.
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