"I think of a tetrapod slithering in and out of slime puddles across a great plantless terrain. Primordial soup wasteland existence, permanent orange sun, skies filled with fire and smoke plumes heralded by sulfuric hissing. Trilobytes lining coastlines unto seabeds with no space between each other. They harvest detritus more bountiful than they will ever know again. A world of singular entities, few enough to count on hand. Hostile, alien, miasmic. Bare ingredients laid out haphazardly, a premammalian cruelty dimension where violence occurs slowly, automatically, and undeterred because nothing alive has yet developed the sensation of pain. Color does not exist. All things merely processed in vague gradients of light and darkness. Sound is a dull vibration, a rented half-sense shared with touch. This is a realm in which distinction has little to no usecase. No emotions, no fear, simply dull attraction towards sustenance. Reproduction is paired with suicide, carried out with the ease of breathing. Piles of flesh, chitin, and gastrodermis growing and decaying in waveform rhythm across Pangean globeocean. Seamats of great algean civilization worship the sun in perpetuity. A gray sun, a merciless sun feeds them. They persist for multimillenia in purgatoric stability. A single spore of mutation wipes out the red ocean and replaces it with orange. A new dynasty of color begins.
Bastard insect turboviolence existence drags in oceanic forebearers. Fungal spores burrow their way into the cranial membranes of hive creatures, seeding their future corpses like landmines for language and concept to erupt. They enclose and hide in solitude through turbulent ice age cycles. They know what will become of this, they have mastered time in both directions. I think about primordial existence, digested life cycles and alien cross contamination marking the chaotic indignance of precursive reality before God chose to fully pay attention. Upon which, He spun the globe in quick bursts, flinging biospheres into suffocated dead matter to orbit earth until it settled into faint rings. Corpses to be burnt away by solar winds.
I think about methane creatures and sponges that just recently learned to move, shuffling slowly towards ocean vents to fellate them totally and starve their neighbors from warmth or nutrients. Suckling from earth's tit, her murderous magmatic milk. I think about the Coelacanth and its reminder that all of earth's secrets hide under its crust, never dying, only sleeping. Dragons and manticores once roamed the earth and they had dreams like people do. They would tense in their sleep remembering the creatures of primordial existence. Grandfather to the grandfather to the grandfather of their grandfather. Precursors beyond their natural instinct of terror and ferocity. When they too were folded under the earth, they nudged away from the shadowed corner where these creatures lie. Not out of fear but of discomfort, knowing they were the leftovers of something even more incomprehensible. A souvenir existence, retired as sludge. The direct descendants of fire, lighting, water, and wind..."
