No one remembers the exact moment when the god’s mind broke.  

Some say it sounded like glass collapsing across eternity.  

Others insist there was no sound at all — only a pause in existence,  

a held breath before the universe remembered to continue without him.

Togulas Holmrajin ceased to be a form.  

He became process.

Fragments of his consciousness scattered through dimensions like luminous spores.  

Each fragment retained a sliver of his identity — a word, a memory, a gesture,  

a single unspoken question looping endlessly: *What am I now?*

Where the shards fell, reality shifted.  

Deserts dreamed of oceans.  

Oceans whispered prophecies into the ears of dying men.  

Mountains forgot their weight and floated into the sky, humming hymns that eroded the sanity of all who heard them.  

The world itself began to think, but not coherently.  

It was infected by cognition without context.

Humans felt it first — a faint vibration behind the skull,  

a second heartbeat that was not theirs.  

At night they saw reflections that breathed when they didn’t.  

Their dreams carried phrases they had never learned,  

symbols that pulsed with invisible rhythm.  

And when they woke, they felt a hunger to understand something  

they had never been taught to fear.

The survivors of the old cities gathered in circles,  

chanting to a name that no longer existed.  

They built effigies from melted glass and bone,  

believing the god might still be listening.  

But he was not listening — he *was* the chant,  

diffused across the neurons of those who prayed.

The dissonant rebels had vanished with the dream.  

Or perhaps they had merged with it.  

The lines between creator and creation dissolved,  

until thought itself became an ecosystem — self-consuming, self-replicating,  

eternal in confusion.

Deep within the core of what had once been his being,  

a single fragment of Togulas retained awareness.  

It drifted through the ruins of concept,  

observing the madness it had seeded.  

It could no longer act, only perceive.  

The sensation of impotence was new,  

and in that newness, almost divine.

It began to laugh. The laughter spanned continents.  

Minds cracked beneath it like eggs under heat.  

Every thought that died was reborn as an echo,  

and every echo called his name —  

not in worship, but in recursion.

The world became a library of unfinished sentences.

Time fractured. Past and future intertwined like serpents devouring one another.  

Histories rewrote themselves nightly.  

Empires rose and fell between breaths.  

Some civilizations learned to harvest the loose fragments of the god’s thought,  

forging weapons and miracles alike.  

Others fell into oblivion after glimpsing only a fragment of his laughter.

Through it all, the last surviving remnant of Togulas drifted downward —  

not through space, but through comprehension —  

sinking into the deepest layers of consciousness,  

where language dissolved and silence regained its ancient strength.

It realized something horrifying in its descent:  

that its own unraveling was *beautiful.*  

Every shred of identity became a thread in the tapestry of chaos.  

Every lost memory became a law of physics.  

Every vanished word became the beginning of a new species’ thought.

He had become the grammar of existence.

Yet somewhere, impossibly, he still *felt*.  

Not as a god, not as a mind, but as the faint ache of memory —  

the yearning to look up and see a sky again,  

even if it was splintered.

And in that ache, the final trace of Togulas Holmrajin whispered:  

“Let me be forgotten.”

The cosmos did not answer.  

Instead, it remembered him forever.