Dime Novels From Oblivion

It is me whose going away but from my perspective, the world is what’s shutting down, gradually like a carnival closing at the end of the night. The spinning rides glowing with electric fire sat quiet and inert as they were dismantled and quietly packed away
Dimming shadows on the wall murmur about me in the past tense. Sometimes I try and speak, but I am inaudible to these living apparitions. Their names slide away with everything else. My memories flicker and blur like degraded film. I arbitrarily mutter the words I hear in these living dreams, and it betrays my thoughts to anyone close enough to understand. It is physically watching time disintegrate. The physical and metaphysical dis-entwine the body, the vessel that sustains what is behind the eyes, the soul if you’d like dissolves in the still and frigid. Experience itself is destroyed along with me. What I am reliving will soon never of happened to anyone.

The podcast studio was the size of a large closet. In the middle of the room was a table with four mounted microphones in the center, two facing right the other two pointed left and a small soundboard set up on the upper right corner. The plaster wall was painted black with the words Information Defense Force painted in bold red letters across the surface.
Todd and Ryan were sitting across from each other, their faces illuminated by the glow of their open laptops. Ryan, the host, was in a plush leather office chair, while Ryan sat in a folding chair. Today, IDF was going live. The corporate-Marxists Hollywood machine had just launched a new phase in its ongoing cultural assault so it was up to self-appointed leaders like Todd to rally their troops and let them know what they could do to fight back.
"The SJDs have taken off their gloves now." Todd declared. "If what they're doing doesn't have you convinced they want to destroy the very basis of western culture, …

There are people you have no idea even exist and who at this moment you may have no conceivable connections to who will inflict pain on you so deep it will ingrain itself into your neurological wiring. There are other people out there though,  whose existence you are unaware of and who are just as oblivious to your existence who upon you will replicate the same pain that emotionally deformed you. It is a misguided form of vengeance. Likely, you'll only ever have the vaguest notion of what happened, but there is also a chance you'll feel perpetual and tremendous guilt for it. It doesn't matter, though, as this is inevitable. They have a word for it "cycle."

King Agesilaus and his entourage stood on the beach pensively watching the golden sun ascend from beneath where the twin planes of turquoise water and crystal sky merged into an endless gleaming expanse of blue.
The morning tide was coming in, and the otherwise still waters were clawing their way up the shore, breaking over the rocks and spreading out over the sand before slowly withdrawing and coming in again. A slight breeze swept over the water and through the King’s coarse ash colored beard and to the discernment of his entourage, the great man audibly shuddered.
“Posiden approaches,” Agesilaus cooly announced.
The men all trained their eyes, several meters they could see long white hair drifting in the water.  Everyone behind the King took a step back when they saw a wrinkled forehead break through the surface followed by eyes with the electric glow of lightning.
He was still far out, but already his broad shoulders and impossibly sculpted chest were already several feet above th…