ETERNAL RETURN.

Dew trickles from the curled leaves that bask in the radiant Light of filtered sun. As you move your eyes down from the shimmering radiance, they come into contact with your opponent; you're familiar with him by now. He is your half-brother, your womb mate, the other side of your vintage penny. You breathe deep of the electrolytes that swim in the air, molecular bonds singing a jaunty tune as they fill your lungs and are combined in the furnace that is your heart. You are an irrepressible, violent miracle. It would take a man a hundred years to walk the breadth of your soul.

Your mind percolates with countless possibilities. Across the table, whose surface is decorated with pockmarks and craters, you see your half-brother, your counterpart. Your hateful core and your losing lot. It is better to have tried than not, his cocked brow says. You know him, at least the flies that swarm around his heart, and you know his works. Your mouth opens and strands of light sketch themselves out of your mouth; your words are art and they will fill the universe with conceptualization:

" i think i'm getting the hang of this. "

Your half-brother raises a hand and the silken fabrics of his shroud move with the gesture. With a brush of his hand he sweeps away a thousand galaxies, and like a great eclipse shadowing over the world he looms atop the board. In this game there's everything: every possibility can be displayed through the dolorous mathematics found within.

" WE APPROACH THE STATE CALLED 'ENDGAME.' PUT SIMPLY, WE WILL SOON DECIDE WHO WINS. "

You watch as a piece dances on its own, and you frown. It struggles to find its footing, skittering towards its own empire of thought and meaning. It is in this soul eclectic that you spy a tinge of loss and pain. You click your tongue. It has lost everything and yet it continues. Does anyone even remember it?

" it has been fun. but we should really call it quits soon. the day grows long in its teeth and here in our kingdom of consciousness we begin the harvest. our eyes dance with pheromones, half-brother, and we kneel amidst the tangents and proto-planetarium addled sky. "

He nods in agreement, his shroud spilling over his shoulders with that motion. He points an imperious digit at your piece, that swims through the air and revives a flower next to it. This is the game of amoebas and archaebacteria, it's simply the game that will choose where we go next. What we do next. It will decide if anything comes next at all. But it probably won't. This feels like it, doesn't it? Shouldn't that break your heart?

This old game is all you and your half-brother know. It's all you are. When you give up the game, what will you be? Both of you, that is. You'll both be askew, a spinning mast in a storm, fluttering over the infinite ocean without a course or chart to guide your way. Does it even matter, truly?

" ALL THINGS END, " your half-brother offers, comfortingly. You are a being of compassion and hope. You're the first human with a fractured femur that was carried to safety by her tribe members. You're the frog hiding inside a spider's nest, cleaning her of parasites while her webs and fangs shelter you from any that would hurt you, only her teeth are made of onyx and obsidian and her soul is aflame with hate and survival all the same. She will never know you the way you know yourself.

You're a novel way of seeing the universe, aren't you? Homoharmonic and psychedelic, baby.

" i know, but that doesn't make me feel any better. it shouldn't have to! " Your half-brother stiffens and his shroud seems to turn to burnished glass. Smoky air pools from his corners and his angles, each of which are obtuse but act acute, and it traces over your skin made of unalloyed gold. You are pyrite porcelain; sunlight scattered over the surface of a babbling brook. It's in these things that your children can hear you. In these things they will find you.

It's in this that you will see how the game ends.

" YES, WELL, " he begins, " THAT'S UNFORTUNATE. BUT SOON WE'LL SEE IT'S TIME TO MOVE ON. THERE ARE OTHER GAMES TO PLAY. OTHER PLACES TO BE. "

" this is somewhere to be, " you counter.

" BUT IT CAN'T LAST. "

" why not? "

" IT JUST CAN'T. "

" but it's so much fun. "

" BUT IT HAS TO END. "

" i don't want it to. "

" NOBODY DOES. "

" will it at least be fun? "

" PROBABLY NOT. YOU'LL PROBABLY LEAVE THE GAME CRYING, A CAUSTIC ECHO OF PAIN THAT SEARS INTO YOU. YOU'LL UNDERSTAND THIS IS THE END OF AN ERA. YOU'RE GIVING YOUR LAST CURTAIN CALL, BASICALLY. "

" what happens when the curtain falls, then? "

" WE BOW OUT. WE'VE PLAYED OUR PART BUT WE'RE JUST TWO MEMORIES OF A BYGONE ERA. IT'S TIME TO MOVE ASIDE. "

" i feel like i didn't get to do all i wanted to do. this change in the plot seems so sudden. was it poorly thought out? did circumstance damn us to this? "

" PROBABLY. "

" you aren't sure. "

" NO. BUT HERE WE ARE ANYWAY. "

You slump down in your seat. You felt like you had so much more in mind, so many fun ideas. Boss fights, epic showdowns, maybe a cool floating castle or two... but this is how it ends. The end zone is in sight and it's time to score the last touchdown. It's odd—you have spent all this time hating your half-brother, your womb mate, your vintage penny's tails. Here in the end, as you begin with a presupposition, you realize that he is like you. You're both fixed to this and you can't ever change; that makes you the same in one way for the first time in infinite eternity.

You're both vestigial.

Pain flits through you. You look down and a knife is buried in your chest. An infinite eyebrow cocks and you glance at your half-brother in consternation.

" SORRY. IT'S MY NATURE. "

" yes, the farmer and the viper, the frog and the scorpion. notice how these tales cannot exist without both peace and pain? "

" I'VE NOTICED BUT TO BE HONEST I DON'T REALLY GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE POTENTIAL POETIC IRONY FOUND WITHIN. THIS COULD BE THE LAST TIME WE EVER SPEAK TO EACH OTHER. CAN WE JUST PRETEND IT'S NOT HAPPENING? "

" this isn't like you, " you begin cautiously. Your half-brother hitches his voice. He sounds like he's going to start crying.

" IT'S NOT. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S WRONG. I'M SCARED. " The floodgates break. His shroud is made of particles and collapsing atoms. Antimatter skirts around his head like a halo and you swear you can hear him sniffle.

" i am too. everyone is. it's scary. "

" IS IT GOING TO HURT? "

" most likely. "

" I SIT IN ANXIETY OF THE GRAND DESIGN. "

" we all do. "

" WILL IT BE LIKE FALLING ASLEEP? "