/lit/ - Literature

Antarctica. During the nights, the darkest, grimmest skies of pitch-black blindness conceivable. During the day, the white alabaster assaults the eyes from all directions. And in the mean time, the all encompassing bone chewing, castigating cold crushes all. The mother of all inexistences, the void itself. Comparable only to the Devil's heart in how cold and dark it is. Darkness, the absence of light. White, the absence of color. Coldness the absence of heat. The mother of all inexistences, the void itself, a place untouched by God, as it exists solely as a testament of the physical manifestations of all that doesn't exist. That which isn't there. It is not even the place where man's hubris takes him to die, for few even dare brave its colorless, lightless heart. It is merely the home, birthplace, monument in celebration of the concrete presence of nothing.