. . . What was the world if not suffering.

The Narrator had always known himself to be a fictional being, no doubt about that. But when confronted with the utter silence and biting loneliness of, simply, knowing that Stanley could not hear his rambles— he could not handle the pressure.

Each time Stanley pressed that damn button, he would go dormant— mind blank and body lifeless, simply leaving the Narrator to stare on, talking to absolutely nothing. In the end, all he truly ever did was.. nothing. Meant nothing.

He only existed if people could hear him speak— but he now, after thousands of years sitting, understood it all. Understood that the moment he began to repeat, or quiet, he did not truly exist.

And so, from his nonexistent form and perspective, he simply waited. And waited. His mind was truly nothing, at this point. What was left?

“. . . The end is ever the end is never the end is never the end is never the end…” He repeated constantly, like a drone. His voice was low and weak, monotonous, from repeating it for.. years, maybe. He was omnipresent— omnipotent— everything under the sun… and yet.. a fool. All at once, wrapped up in a neat yellow bow.