The Nihilist Creationist Poem
This universe is colored writer's block white, not bridal, virginal white, but filler white, an annoying glare that just takes up space. Genesis has it framed like a photo negative. This universe was not born from darkness. That first decree was, "Let there be dark, and let the inky blackness dot the white." For the Supreme Author, the would be writer of the first sentence, had thought of nothing original after an eternity of pondering. All was blank, an absolute blank. What made matters worse was the realization that if He had come up with anything at all it would have been, by definition, original. Panic gripped Him, for if nothing came out, could there be nothing inside? He needed something, anything, on paper. Thus He decreed a cosmic dappling of dark characters on the blinding white void. Now look around you, characters of his creation, does His plot make any sense? No, we're all the fruit of a grand doodle across an infinite celestial page. This universe is His first effort, a promising but still sophomoric try. Our common prayer should be an end to artistic inspiration, a writer's block of infinite duration, for if inspired our Author would crumple up this embarrassing doggerel and pitch it. Then he'd put a new sheet in His metaphorical typewriter which would pound out a much better script, preferably on paper colored an eye-soothing light blue.