all the violets which god hath created: the stunted, the wilting, the perfected, the imaginary. number the violets all up and line them on the papers and at the end of the universe they will still exist there. and as the stars all collapse around you and your list you shall set fire to it with your fingertips. for you are god and they are nothing, not ever were, they never existed anywhere but in your mind but there in your mind they did exist, they were, they are, and they shall forever remain afire, charred, perfect and with spots of dew the sun just begins to heat with its loving eyeless gaze; of all the violets that you have created there are none and there are all things else as well. oh god leave us all be: the stunted, the wilting, the perfected, the imaginary.
as the stars collapse we will be there numbered at least, some of us lucky few named, full on the pages of your book. oh, what lovely doodles in the margins. what sly questionings and musings you have next to us each. in your mind we did exist, we were, we are. as the dust of the galaxies shatters your glass skin into a million new sparkling infinities, new books are written. old books are forgotten. old jottings, smeared. the pages become new paper and the glass of your anatomy becomes sand in new creations the violets will never exist again. in all of the evers that are formed, no violets will be. no violets will be.