Natalie Watts' Writer Void
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It's a bomb.

Under a thousand layers of protective shielding is a dynamo of spatial destruction, a cavalcade of dead minds and twisted spacetime that screams with a prismatic brilliance and tears into its body with an autocannibalistic fervor. The cadavers of forgotten gods claw for escape at the edges of a maelstrom blaring with supernova radiance as the few deities still alive are whipped around the eye of the cosmic storm. Bodies are unspooled then stretched then snipped at jagged angles, undone by the invisible hands of physical laws that have turned against the universe they once governed, cast into a vortex whose maw rips bloody chunks out of Everywhere and Everytime and Everything. The only lights are the rainbow rivulets of sloughing dimensionality. The only sounds are the erratic drumbeats of the universe's spasming pulse. It's the world gutted to its barest components. It's reality's death throes. It's the Apocalypse.

To outside observers, none of this visible. The spectacle is condensed to a Planck length gap, a subatomic cavity in a near solid shell of glistening empyrean gold, compacted into a sphere small enough to fit in a human palm.

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