There is a place in the universe where horrid creatures dwell, the twisted remnants of cosmic erasures rolled with the filthy remains of things long forgotten.

As the eraser rubs out marks on paper, so does the besom of the destroyer rub out entire peoples and worlds. As bits flake off and twist together with uprooted graphite, so do the ends of destruction’s eraser warp and twist and wear away, becoming chattel together with the ruins of obliterated realms.

So does the divine combine with the mundane to become something new, only to be discarded as refuse.

Some bits of this refuse wiggle and squirm in place.

Others stretch and pull their bulk across the jagged rocks.

Some moan.

Others squeal.

Some quiver and shiver in torment.

Others think impossible thoughts and dream impossible dreams.

Some gaze curiously out at the ever more distant stars.

Others can see nothing at all, only tasting bitter omens on the wind.

And still others neither see nor taste nor smell, nor yet hear nor feel, existing as self-contained entities, oblivious to all but their own shapeless thoughts, living as universes unto themselves.

All of this flows ever downward toward the place called the Collision of Worlds, where abandoned creations crash and crumble, grinding each other to dust before finally draining out into the void beyond the void.

But we will explore that place another day.

The Astral Wanderer is brought to you by a thousand thousand mistakes, only some of which have been graced by the deleterious touch of an eraser. The rest find their way here, ready for you to read and share with others. Really.