Surrounded by swirling, ululating vortices of frozen silence, the Un-Thing leapt and devoured, folding astronomical distances in tides of sweeping growth and extinguishing star after lightless expanse in jagged coils of translucent, strange-hued darkness, replete with disjoined intersecting parallel shapes. Crackling discharges of raw force sizzled at the edges of the crumpling infinity that was being reduced by exponentially increasing fractions as it, ever boundless, was hemmed in and mangled by the encroaching pestilential, alien nonexistence-that-was. As the churning void advanced, it seemed to take shape, its indescribable features lengthening and smoothening into forms recognisable as something resembling a product of an universe which might once have been this one; yet, at the same time, a degenerative evolution gripped and wracked its entire informity, preserving even the least of its foully unworldly traits in static transformation. There was nought that could have withstood its immobile onslaught; not the brightest stars, nor the darkest awning gaps in the fabric of matter, nor indeed the invisible yet formidable irradiations of uncountable toxic galaxies could so much as delay the haste which was a delay unto itself.

At a point in time, or space, or both, which might have been soon or never, the abnormal intrusion had consumed, in a frenzied bid to assuage the absence of its hunger, its way to reaches which, if observed from a vantage point higher than the greatest eminence in a space where dimensions were uncertain and there was, in truth, no actual concept of above or below, might have seemed vaguely familiar to someone hailing from a spot in endlessness ever so distantly related to the environs of that which we are accustomed to calling our home. No time passed, and the foremost distortions of immateriality drew ever near. Clusters of suns too vast for their numbers to be counted within the collective lifespan of entire species flickered out in the twisting maelstrom of the bloated, insatiable aberration’s relentless stillness; the emptiness grew slanted, celestial bodies rolling down its smooth inclination into the chasmal rise expecting them, or indeed crawling forth to seize them as they ascended. A few more glimmers of eternity, and that space was no more. Before the enormity’s faceless visage, or above and below it, there lay a many-dimensioned expanse; and somewhere there, almost too insignificant to be mentioned, was the very core of the cradle of the feeble, grasping consciousness we know as our own – an Earth among myriads of earths. Omniscient in its obliviousness, the Un-Thing gathered its nought over what was but a splinter of its unsought prey, looming as an invisible threat fearsome to behold, then, at the same time, came rushing forth in paradoxical decay of motion, clutching at yet-new things to absorb and unmake in a momentous, cosmos-shaking impact…

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[i]Sieben Uhr.[/i][/url]

As a brief burst of triumphal music blared through the room, followed by the enthusiastic voice of an announcer who apparently delighted in bringing to the expectant ears of the nation the daily share of mostly dismal global novelties, something vaguely recognisable as an arm draped in tangled bedsheets stirred in the nigh-formless darkened heap that was the bed. Reaching falteringly for the bedstead, the appendage groped its way over the simil-wood surface, did not, to all evidence, find what it sought, and disappointedly withdrew. Soon afterwards, an indistinct figure rose from where it had sunken, clumsily stretched its sleep-numbed limbs, and shuffled towards the centre of the room with an audible yawn, followed by a sound akin to “och”. Having remained still for a few moments as if in indecision, struggling with the last shreds of somnolence besetting its mind and body, it finally struck upon a shambling course for the window, and, grunting, drew open the blinds. The dim, grey light of a winter morning flowed into the room, banishing the previously sovereign darkness to its customary haunts in the nooks and corners, and washed over the now almost-awake figure, who stood, transfixed, before the gleaming rectangle in the wall marred by its weathered paper coverage. Thus, with pale sunlight on his drowsy features and with some pop song whose only quality was being forgettable in the background, did Johannes Schmidt greet the new day.

Having satisfied his need to gaze into the luminescent void for a few moments to bring himself a step closer to a functioning condition, Hans headed resolutely towards the bathroom. Daily ablutions completed, he threw a glance at the mirror hanging over the washbasin. If confronted with that very sight, anyone else would have observed a set of features so unremarkable as to be almost an exemplar of the modernistic era (to say nothing of the postmodern undertones) which had been inconspicuously smuggled into the world by such figures as Leopold Bloom, Giannini’s Uomo qualunque and their ashen-clad ilk and clung to it as persistently as stains to cutlery, and felt their gaze involuntarily slide off it, lacking anything well-defined enough to which to cling; all that Hans himself saw, however, was that he fortunately did not need to shave yet. Bolstered by the cleansing effect of water upon his features, he returned to the illuminated bedroom, his steps hastening as he grew increasingly conscious of the fact it was a Friday morning and he ought to be on his way to the Straßenbahn stop by half-past seven at the latest. As the radio continued to drone on, interspersing fragments of suitably generic music with the humming of news and weather forecasts, he donned with practised motions one of an indefinite series of sweaters of the hue of rat fur, along with the necessary complementary articles of similar colour, and proceeded to the kitchen.

Mechanically filling his stomach with whatever produce it was he had previously arranged in convenient positions, Hans alternated between savouring the anticipation of the week’s approaching end and distractedly intercepting snippets of radiophonic announcements. Fluctuating currency rates, neither stable enough to be reassured, nor varying wildly enough to be truly concerned; conflicts in some distant part of the world no one over here truly paid any heed to; succinct accounts of the supposed intricacies of foreign politics; in brief, the usual. He wondered why he kept using the thing at all instead of buying a proper alarm clock, but that consideration, briefly flashing through his mind as a stray comet, was rapidly drowned by calculations of clock prices, evaluations of the morning broadcast programme as an awakening influence, and a creeping certainty that it was not worth the while and he would not do it anyway. Finally, just as some sort of hip-hop monstrosity was about to begin, Hans reached over and deftly flicked a button upon the garrulous plastic box, silencing it for the week, cast an apprehensive glance at the wall clock, slid into his coat and shoes, just as unsightly as the rest of his attire, and, without so much as a deep breath, pushed the hallway-corridor door open and stepped beyond the threshold. The new day had begun.