The object passes and blood opens the sky. By this he sees what moves in the water. Wells writes: “It was a round thing, the size of a football perhaps, or, it may be, bigger, and tentacles trailed down from it. It seemed black against the weltering blood-red water, and it was hopping fitfully about.”
He edges around what cannot be carried from the shore. There is no heroic saga of cosmic exploration, no reflection on time and finitude. Thought might survive, snuffed with purpose by the zero-promise or sex-death – relentless “purposelessness which compels all purpose”. It is what Ligotti might describe as the churning latrine of the Absolute -“a hyper-Chaos, for which nothing is or would seem to be impossible, not even the unthinkable.”
Call this It follows. Eviscerated blind, it flops on a sandbar; clings to the last mat of polyp; suckered into new meat, until even your death hardens into priapism. Rosa wavers in rotoscope anime. Her distended face lost among duplicates: By killing myself I felt that I would also be killing all of you, killing every bad body on this Earth.
The Prometheans forgot this. Appallingly, it transpires, since nature consistently sucks. Their Clinic is rewarded with a neat line in operable bodies. With these they could fuck the desert, which was all anyone had by this point. The wind moans out of utter darkness and cold. He sings: Go with me somewhere. Bold as love, into Café/Club Silencio.
Obertura crashes in screams.
Wired crowds on the bridge circulate between the old naval yards. He wonders if this too is over. He recalls the prophetic language shared between the Cabal and its revisionist opponents. “Interaction with the rational system of commitments follows a navigational paradigm in which the ramifications of an initial commitment must be compulsively elaborated” 
Faith in the unmanifest and innocent – “mirror of the star-sown sky”. We expect commitments to be acknowledged. Everyone wants a piece of death. There will be something for you out there. And some weather naturally. There would be no more Sunday outings on the bridge. Yet here we are.
For full text see here
 Well, H. G. The Time Machine (Wise House Classics edition), 2016: 108.
 Brassier, Ray. Nihil Unbound: Enlightenment and Extinction. Houndsmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007, 236.
 Meillassoux, Quentin. After finitude: An essay on the necessity of contingency. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2010: 64
 Ligotti, Thomas. My Work is Not Yet Done. Virgin Books, 2009: 136.
 Negarestani, Reza. “The Labour of the Inhuman.” Mackay and Avanessian,# Accelerate (2014): 425-466.
 Foucault, Michel, The Order of Things. London: Tavistock: 22.