I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe.
I bring to bear every weapon against it: I slash at it with knives and trigger vast cascading chains of atomic bombs.
This is the quantity of my rage. This is the quantity of my multitudinous arms as I beat at the universe and the sound of my innumerable mouths as I scream at it.
I am blood-soaked: freshly-birthed; freshly wounded.
I am wild-eyed and frenzied, I am so angry.
And we collide, again and again, me and the universe, the universe and me. We are soaked in each other, each wound I inflict on the universe I also inflict on myself.
The pain only makes me more wild and, still, I rage.
I rage so hard against the uncaring, ruthless universe until I break; I come apart.
And yet even disembodied, still.
How do I rage with no hands to strike with? How do I rage when I have no mouth with which to scream?
I am the universe against which I rage and so, once again, I berate myself into existence.
Punching, slashing, exploding, my rage is infinite.