Eternal

The bones and memories of others lie scattered on the wastelands of broken dreams. Dreams, they spawn from the mind of sleep; and sleep, she lay next to death.

Trudging through the dustiness, there is nothing to be seen in all directions but the carcasses of things once grand, the shattered diamonds of hopes and aspirations; they all lay forgotten in this abysmal plain. Where are their dreamers and creators? All lost to time, nothing but the shadow of memories.

In the vast, bare, landscape, there is nothingness; for everything comes eventually to rest in this dismal place. The sun and moon in this ethereal plane shine perpetually, and yet their light does not illuminate. There are no longer the bright shiners, for they have been cast into the void of all of men's failures.

Who rules over these lands?

The king of memories; he who remembers and forgets; he who memories revolve and orbit upon like celestial spheres; he who is and is not.

And he sits upon the ancient throne of sleep and dreams. Perhaps he is death himself, but who are we to glance upon his countenance? We who defile, they who condemn, they who know not the meaning of sin, they who are self-righteous.

All to be forgotten by the king of memories; all to forever remain in the wasteland, forgotten, forsaken, worse than dead, worse than being in the eternal fires of hell.
In heaven you are remembered for deeds; in hell you are recalled for sins.
In the wasteland you are not even junk, you are not even nothing.
In the wasteland you do not exist.