He pushes open the hatch, thrusting the light into the darkness. He climbs the ladder, and finds that beyond the trap door is another level. He hoists himself up, and searches the abyss for signs of life. Dreaded life. The darkness seems to undulate, changing shape and thickening. This place goes on for miles underground, built by a people forgotten by human history.
He has forgotten the effort it takes to have discernable features, and has grown amorphous with the absence of eyes to look at him. He has hands to grasp and feet to walk, but the rest of him is smoothing over and becoming simple skin. He has gone without speaking for so long, he has forgotten the name he calls Himself.
He has moved through concrete cities in the fading dusk, tracked by fragmentary golems. He has spent rainy mornings travailing an impossibly green countryside. He searches for an aesthetic, grasping at ashes. He rages to create his memories of lost humanity, builds clay disciples and leaves them in the open air to rot.
His obsession rules him. He is nagged by the feeling that he is dreaming. He tries to dream, and finds only the screaming silence. He builds fantasies, and despairs at their failure. He created this world, and only he knows how it will end, what inconsistency will unravel its internal logic. The last world was sucked into a single blazing point of light because of a miscalculation having to do with physical space. An entire universe, imploding on a typographical error.
His immortality and immutability are his undoing. Nothing surprises him. His creations do not amuse him, and he tortures them out of boredom and loneliness. He finds an escape from misery in cowardice. He is made flesh, born as a man. He is drawn to a life of wandering. He does not remember that he created the world he inhabits.
One day he will regain his memory, and remember that he is the creator. When he does, the time of this universe will be over.
We must all aid him in forgetting.