After the story was over.... there were all the other stories no one had ever said. When we die, the ones we never utter go somewhere, past the ending of our stories, and out into a memesphere, or a meneverse -- but nothing ever truly ends, and Life does not die even if it never leaves.
There are the words the never wrote, the tales we never said, the songs left ever unsung because of the wrong moment, the wrong thought, the wrong person -- this is what happens to our lost words, the ones that don't become black holes and birth another universe in grammatic singularity.
This is the other part of it all.
And The End came, but it was not enough, and the party after stripped enamel from toilets and sang entropic songs that brought small dreams to life and gave peace to all the lonely dust mites drifting about under furniture and clothing, formed by all those lost things we never use and lie fallow in our homes.
The words partied late into the nice, writing Joycean Dr. Seuss novels no one would ever read starring Freud and Margaret Thatcher, weaving the threads authors lose into their own stories, their own collaborative tales.
There is a kind of fan fiction we'll never read, the kind we write to ourselves with the words we never give breath to.
Afer The End, there is always more. The Story goes on, no matter if a story dies. There are no endings, happy or sad, no matter what we write, for nothing dies nor is born and even death is but a change a worlds, of books, of new pages.
There are too many pages for us to fill.
Too many words we will never write because we spurn our gifts and want things no gift can give us, because even hacks think their talent holds Truth, if they can follow it into dark places, and so our dreams write stories that no one will ever read, post modern wonders that have have no power, no force, no drive to them -- and we are diminished by dreams
and we are made weak by living for words that could be and not ones that are
and we write our The End while the story waits, patiently, to begin again, to not die in the way of books, to cry out against the darkness -- but all parties come to an end, and we only know of them because of new words formed by their drinking, and because of a hole in our hearts we can never fill, though we stamp on it with all we have.
The dust mites could tell us so much, but we sweep them all up.