I suppose the universe will answer itself, eventually. Or so the fountain across the street leads me to think. Why else would it continue it’s cycle? Why else would it recycle that which will never be pure? It seems easier to simply stop, and take comfort in the idea of the finite, the infinitesimal moment which is the hallmark of all living things.
To lean back in a comfortable chair, in a warm room, and sip from leisure drinks. And sip from drinks and take from all the smaller pleasures till the boredom fills you so completely that you must expel from that place all that was you. And that would be the end of it, a stain on a wall next to a half empty bottle of bourbon to mark your stay in an ever collapsible universe.
But, I suppose the universe will answer itself, eventually, after the void is so complete that the totality of existence can be averaged to a slowly dying hiss. The totality of the universe grown so bored in waiting, so cold in waiting, it will start to hum, quietly, and without music.
And when that answer comes, it will be like fabric cinching, the placeholders shifting back towards itself, bringing back the subtle heat, but slowly. And in that moment, the fabric will grow out and across, the landscape of everything turning back onto itself as the average noise carries farther, vibrates faster in the void. The hum will become louder, until it deafens all of everything; until it drives the people in it ecstatic, hysterical, from the sound of the answer washing over the wrinkled mess that is totality.
Then they will come to realize that it would be easier to simply wait, to exist. To put forth no more steps, and take on no new miseries. It will be that growing ribbon of an answer that will sing us back to sleep, will carry us back to the ur-moment when the primal forces screamed out against the nothing, demanding to be heard. Then, I suppose, the universe will answer itself. And the pervasive song will go into glorious refrain, once more. Or, it will simply stop cycling its water, and the fountain will dry. The seat will grow cold, the glasses upturned, and so will begin a subtle hiss at the very edge of awareness.