The Machine Stops

         God, the ultimate megalomaniac. The creator of worlds.
         What of me, the destroyer of worlds?
         They build Him towers of marble and gold to reach the sky, to reach Him, eager to hover in His presence like moons circling Jupiter. And all I get is the random fire on a cemetery or a broken tombstone. I never asked for that. What meaning should a defiled resting place of a human hold to me?
         God speaks to his followers. Never directly, but he speaks to them. I never do. Many a buffoon during the course of time have claimed that I've spoken to them, dictated actions or even books. Dirty liars, do they think I have nothing better to do with my time? Or theirs?

         God, His infinite wisdom, His absolute grip on the universe. All I ever wanted was the same power over the living that He has. And now, at last, I have found out how to do exactly that. I have found out what it is that He did to make the world tic.
         And I will make it un-tick.

         There is a star that man calls GHN-13, which is not actually a star but an intricate device of His creation, the machine of life. It is out of the reach of man (only those simple apes could have thought to name things they cannot touch), of that He has made sure.
         But it is not out of my reach. I have been there before and I have determined what exactly I must do. Tonight, I will transfer myself there, mind and body. Tonight, I will undo what He has done.
         Tonight, the machine stops.